Hell Bent
by K9Lasko
Summary: Tony is killed by his own teammate during a suspicious shooting in the Director's office. With the help of friendly and not-so-friendly faces, the fractured team stumbles through the twisted mystery of WHY. In some cases, there is no such thing as closure.
1. Introduction

Summary: In the aftermath of a supposed job counseling gone bad, Special Agent Gibbs does what he does best. He investigates.

Notes: Multi-chapter story. Timeline AU... maybe season 8-ish. Character death, but keep in mind - The character we lose remains a main character throughout. Rated T for swearing and violence.

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p>Introduction<p>

Timothy McGee stood still with hands outstretched, clenching the gun. His body was frozen in place and stiff with shock. Feet splayed and balance teetering off-center, all he could do was heave in breath after breath while his mind wailed over and over again - holy shit holy shit holy shit.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Director Vance crawling - more like dragging - himself from behind the desk, one hand clutching a bloody gut, gagging out mangled syllables. His face contorted in pain and fury, Vance was swearing a blue line. But Tim's eyes didn't linger on that horror because they were already fixated on what lay straight in front of him, straight in front of his Sig that still reeked of gunpowder.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

Tony DiNozzo was on the floor, crumpled on his side and curled slightly in a fetal position. His cheek was pressed against the thin blue carpeting. His eyes had drooped halfway shut as the blood spread slowly, coagulating into a murky red in the carpet's tight Berber tangles. He did not move. He did not twitch. Not like he had when he'd first been struck.

Tim still smelled the burnt gunpowder, now with the addition of blood. He'd smelled blood many times before, but in this circumstance, the cloying scent twisted his stomach. Tim's wide eyes then glued themselves to the gun held loosely by Tony's still hand. And then he noticed his own gun again, how it pointed in the body's direction, barrel aimed high - just about where Tony's chest had been before he dropped to the carpet.

Bang bang. He remembered squeezing the trigger. Once, twice. Just like in training, just like out in the field. Like it was second nature.

Oh, God.

"God damnit. FUCK. Fuck, my stomach is on FIRE." That wasn't coming from Tony; it was coming from Director Vance who was in the process of bleeding all over the office.

Somebody gently extricated the gun from Tim's grip, and then that same somebody moved towards Tony. The blurred shape nudged the gun out of Tony's grasp, kicking it away from the body. The shape hesitated before finally kneeling down.

Tim ripped himself to the side, bile suddenly leaping in his throat. He had half a mind to aim for the wastebasket, nearly tripping over his own feet as he dove and weaved to the side. Whoever was in the room had made the dash with him and was now gripping his shoulders, preventing him from taking a header into his own vomit.

"Easy there, Tim," his shadow was attempting to soothe - but Tim wasn't listening. He'd been deafened by his own gun. Bang bang. His eyes turned again to Tony who hadn't moved an inch, not even to laugh in Tim's face for his weak stomach. In a haze he continued to stare, long and hard, the image searing itself into his gray matter.

"DiNozzo?" Tim croaked. The spread of blood across the carpeting had since stopped expanding. His stomach twisted again, but he had nothing left to throw up. Like some newly born creature, Tim took one staggering step towards his friend, bleating again, "Tony?"

His mystery shadow acted fast, firm hands impeding his progress and turning him away. And Tim, subject to the whims of the room, put up no resistance. He stumbled along, not even sure where he was headed, his shadow close beside him.

Outside the room a confused group had assembled into a throng, all of them murmuring to each other about shooters, victims, heroes. "Was that DiNozzo?" Someone asked. A hand thumped him hard on the back, making his teeth clack together. "You're a hero, son."

"Hero" echoed in his brain. Hero.


	2. Chapter One

Author's Note: By the way, this is my first NCIS story ever. (:

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p>Chapter One<p>

"You stay with Vance!" Gibbs yelled at Ziva who was wading through the mass of curious bodies lingering around the doorway. He kept a hand securely attached to McGee's bicep even as he turned around to instruct whoever was nearest and most capable, "Somebody secure the scene, and _somebody_ needs to evacuate this damn building! We don't know what the hell is going on. Could be another active shooter around here."

At that, more murmuring seemed to pass around the support staff, but it was the other agents who finally took action. The paramedics had arrived, knocking folks over in haste. Even outside the office everybody could hear the director's irate cursing.

"Sir, is he okay?" one of the paramedics asked from somewhere to their left.

"In shock," Gibbs gruffly replied, harshly appraising the young man with narrowed eyes. The kid looked barely out of high school. "He'll live."

The paramedic nodded curtly. "Right." And then he was off, pushing past two burly agents who were stringing up crime scene tape.

Gibbs pulled McGee forward, ignoring the way his agent followed him around silently like a pet on a leash. He knew McGee was beyond out of it; the look of shocked detachment on his face gave it away. And there was the fact that he had been standing with a loaded gun pointed at DiNozzo's body barely two minutes ago.

DiNozzo… Hand loosening its hold on McGee's arm, Gibbs looked once more at the activity going on inside Leon Vance's office. He'd gotten a brief look at the director. Seemed like someone had emptied at least half of a magazine into him. And DiNozzo? Lying there on the bloody carpet like he was sleeping, except Gibbs knew the truth, having checked the man himself. He wouldn't soon forget Tony's dead eyes, vacant yet still somehow accusing. The way his hand still held the gun, finger on the trigger. The way his shirt had come untucked, revealing a bit of pale belly. The way his other arm had splayed out in a strange, unnatural way. His senior field agent definitely was not sleeping. Gibbs felt some nausea of his own creep up on him, taking the back way into his awareness. He closed his eyes and looked back at McGee.

And McGee was now looking at him, too, eyes wide and owlish. "I think I might throw up again," he admitted weakly.

Gibbs would not - could not - blame him. In truth he wanted to pepper the man with questions. He wanted to know what the hell happened. All he knew was that he'd heard shouting, then gunshots and then some more gunshots. One director wounded. One agent dead. Another agent a shell-shocked, de facto hero, at least in accordance to preliminary suspicions. Hero. Gibbs could have snorted.

His eyes latched onto Dorneget who was rushing around like the rest of them. Looking useful in order to hide the hysteria of being completely useless. Gibbs knew that the FBI would soon descend on this place like flies on a shit pile. "Hey, you," his voice boomed. He then motioned for the young agent to come closer.

Dorneget stood there and gawked for a bit, all while pointing at himself and mouthing, "Me?"

"Yeah, you," Gibbs growled. He watched closely as Dorneget ambled over. If the kid had a tail, it would have been wagging full force. Sure, the probie was a bumbling idiot ninety-five percent of the time, but that didn't mean he didn't have any purpose here at all. Gibbs pushed McGee's arm towards Dorneget. "Here. Take him to the conference room downstairs. Make him sit and calm down. I want him to be coherent by the time the FBI gets a hold of him. And-"

"Tony?" McGee suddenly broke into the conversation in that befuddled voice. He was shaking like a leaf as the adrenaline began to wear away.

"DiNozzo's fine," Gibbs lied. "Just breathe. You did good. Pull yourself together." He nodded at Dorneget who had taken his place at McGee's side.

"Um…" Dorneget was starting to say, "Is Tony-"

Gibbs stared him down and shook his head. Dorneget looked away, his dark floppy hair looking even more floppy. "Right. I'll watch Tim."

Turning away, Gibbs returned to the fray. The paramedics were already moving Vance to an ambulance. A few agents were pointing support staff towards the exits, down the stairs and into the elevator, as if they'd never left the building before. The office was stuffy with the smell of sweat and blood. And Ziva…

"What the hell you doin', David?" he barked.

Ziva was on her knees beside DiNozzo. She must have pushed him onto his back and straightened out his arm. Gibbs saw her gently pull his shirt back down over his belly and also saw her move his hair off his forehead.

"Ziva," Gibbs barked again, wondering if she'd completely forgotten where she was.

She jumped and looked over her shoulder, eyes suspiciously glassy. "He would not want to look that way, Gibbs," Ziva reasoned.

Gibbs didn't want to fault her for being human. He knew that she knew it was wrong to touch the body before an ME was present. "This is a _crime scene_," he emphasized. He let his eyes wander to DiNozzo's face. Again, sudden nausea made him taste salt in his mouth. Jesus… This wasn't just a crime scene. This was Tony, somebody who'd somehow gotten so close to Gibbs' personal life that Gibbs - admittedly - didn't even have a designation for him. DiNozzo was _special_, damnit. What the hell was going on?

Ziva looked like she was on the verge to losing it; she was now gazing intently at DiNozzo's face as if she could permanently add it to the recesses of her mind.

"Help me figure this out before the damn FBI gets here!" Gibbs suddenly commanded.

Ziva jumped again, but she didn't start investigating.

"Are you gonna to sit there and stare into space?" he reprimanded her. "Or are ya gonna get up and do your damn job?" Gibbs felt a sliver of remorse for coming down on her so hard, but if she wanted to do Tony any favors, she'd come back to her senses. "Whadda we got?" Strangely, he suddenly thought of Abby. He'd forgotten about Abby. She was probably still down in the lab, oblivious to anything that was happening on the third floor. Somebody had to tell her, eventually.

"One agent dead with two rounds in his chest," Ziva suddenly spoke up, voice clear and professional. She spared another glance at DiNozzo, as if apologizing for the coldly clinical assessment of the situation. "Uh, Director Vance's desk drawer is halfway open."

Gibbs nodded and stepped towards the drawer, opening it further with a pencil. Sure enough, Vance's Sig was there. "Looked like Leon took more than two bullets, but he was still carrying on. Non-lethal shots. DiNozzo's a decent marksman. Not the best, but-"

"Tony must have started shooting first," Ziva added quietly. "If the director was reaching for his weapon, Tony could have reacted in self-defense."

"How could he tell if Vance was reaching for his gun and not a stick of gum?" Gibbs reasoned.

Ziva watched her boss carefully. "Gut feeling."

Gibbs read a portion of the paper that was laid out on the director's desk. "Bad news for DiNozzo," he growled. Leon hadn't given him notice of _this_. He had DiNozzo set up for an official demotion. It was harsh, but even Gibbs knew that his best agent had been suffering as of late. A series of three bad cases. Frequent infractions. Insubordination. Just a tense attitude in general. Gibbs ran a hand over his face. He'd come down hard on Tony as well, especially after he'd verbally accosted a moderately high-ranking official. Granted, Gibbs thought DiNozzo had been in the right... Partially, at least.

Gibbs had benched his best agent. Told him to sit the next few out in order to cool it. Gibbs thought that was punishment enough. Leon obviously had other ideas. And this piece of paper on the desk was the proof.

"I agree. DiNozzo probably shot first. But why-"

"Self defense," Ziva reiterated. "Tony would not shoot somebody over a bad job evaluation." She was so certain. There was no doubt in her mind.

"I wouldn't wanna think so," Gibbs agreed.

Ziva was staring at him hard. "You are not sure," she stated deadpan.

"I can't be sure of anything until we get more concrete facts."

"You know Tony." Ziva was preparing for an argument.

"Of course I know him!" Gibbs roared in return.

"Then do you seriously think he lost it and shot the _director_ of all people in his _office_."

Gibbs thought about that as he scanned the room. Blood stains on the floor. Papers on the desk. The bare fact that McGee was - somehow - outside the room during the altercation. He had been forced to make the decision to neutralize the situation. Gibbs swallowed back the nausea. He wanted to be like Ziva. He wanted to be so damn _sure_ that DiNozzo wasn't up to something. But the fact was, DiNozzo had been acting odd for a while. Not extremely odd, but it was noticeable. He was distracted. Distant. As if he was busy with something shrouded in secrecy.

_Damn you, Tony._

Gibbs hadn't even noticed that Ziva left to check out the hallway until she returned with bad news. "The FBI is here."

"Not a surprise." Gibbs shook his head. "We won't be on this case, for obvious reasons."

They both looked at DiNozzo, lying there so quietly. So _dead_ with two slugs in his chest. This was beyond just a mess. Gibbs wondered where he'd gone wrong.


	3. Chapter Two

Author's Note: Thanks a bunch to all you readers!

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p>Chapter Two<p>

While Ziva ran interference upstairs, Gibbs snuck away to the lower level. Just a few people lingered; the FBI was busy making itself at home. He looked briefly out the large windows, parting the blinds with a steady hand. Through the leafless branches of the trees, he could see squad cars complete with local cops hanging around like coyotes. There was a fire engine and two ambulances. Gibbs stepped away from the window and rounded on DiNozzo's desk.

He paused for a moment before nudging through the area, looking for anything suspicious, anything at all. Mind altering drugs, a letter of explanation, anything that would clue him in on what DiNozzo had been up to.

The desk was cluttered, as it usually was. A half-empty cup of coffee sat close to the keyboard. It smelled like that hazelnut crap. His fingers ghosted past it, noticing that the paper cup was still warm. That might mean something… if DiNozzo would have bothered stopping for an overpriced coffee concoction if he knew he'd soon be attempting to murder the Director of NCIS.

He moved past a crinkled cable bill weighted down by the Mighty Mouse stapler. Why DiNozzo brought his cable bill to work was anybody's guess. Other than that, there were just file folders and other assorted pieces of paper, along with glossy photographs taped haphazardly to any available vertical surface. Tony and Kate. Tony sitting at the president's desk on Air Force One. Tony and Mrs. Mallard's corgis. There were also post-it notes stuck everywhere. He'd left himself little notes for the future.

Except there'd be no future, not for DiNozzo, and Gibbs catalogued those unneeded Post It notes in his memory. Pick up dry-cleaning. Pay rent. $28.65. Sweet potatoes. Call Lt. Fielder. Gibbs scooted to the side of the office chair, choosing to search the drawers next. Nothing but paperclips, rolls of scotch tape, unused pads of Post It notes, a Rubix cube. And a notepad, pushed to the very back of the drawer. Gibbs pulled it out, flipped through a few pages while feeling vaguely voyeuristic. Definitely DiNozzo's.

"Where's Agent McGee right now?" a voice carried down the stairs. Another voice answered unintelligibly. Gibbs paused before tucking the small notepad in his pocket. He'd have Ziva make copies. Leaning down to the bottom drawer, he noticed that it was slightly ajar. It was not locked. And it was mostly empty. No gun, just a few extra magazines, a backup holster, and a box of Gibbs' own medals. Gibbs leaned slightly against the desk and ran a hand over his mouth.

DiNozzo had gone to that meeting armed. Gibbs knew that before, of course. He'd been the one to kick the damn thing away from Tony's dead hand. But why would he take his gun to that meeting? It was a massive breach of common sense, on both Leon and DiNozzo's part. If DiNozzo had been planning something… or if he'd suspected something… A demotion was never pretty; the only thing worse would have been suspension or termination. And Tony, as married to the job as he was, would not have taken it sitting down. But a reaction like _this?_ It was bizarre. Had DiNozzo gone that far out of control?

Then there was the fact that Leon had failed to keep the team leader in the loop regarding the disciplinary proceedings. If Gibbs had known about Leon's intentions, he would have moved heaven and earth to save his senior agent's skin. Then again, considering that fact, it was a given why Leon had been so cagey - only asking about DiNozzo's performance in round about ways.

Gibbs should have known. He should have known that DiNozzo's outburst last week wouldn't be so easily swept under the rug. Leon had it out for him, and Gibbs hadn't done a thing about it. Ignorance wasn't an excuse.

"Gibbs," Ziva was suddenly so close that he jumped. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at that. He wasn't one to flinch.

Shaking off the unease, Gibbs passed a brief glance upwards. The Bureau had brought in their own ME. No surprise there. Ducky was hardly an impartial party. Two assistant were fighting with a collapsible gurney as they hauled it up the stairs.

Ziva was still standing there, staring at him intently. Her face was set into a strained scowl. She had driven the emotion from her eyes. Now she just looked pissed. And dangerous. "They are taking pictures; I had to-"

"You tell them you touched him?"

Frustration passed over her face. "Yes, Gibbs."

With a curt nod, he watched the gurney disappear into the office. "Woulda done the same thing," he assured the junior agent without much conviction.

He should have known that Ziva would be the first one to call him out on a lie. "No, you wouldn't have."

Gibbs suddenly held the little notepad right under Ziva's nose, cutting her off from further comment. "Get me copies of this."

"Tony's?" Ziva asked as she took the thin pad and flipped absent-mindedly through the pages. It was filled with DiNozzo's hieroglyphic handwriting and a liberal amount of doodles. A dog. A tree. A swirly-looking-thing.

Gibbs did not dignify that with a response. Rather, he simply clarified, "The last few pages. At least."

She nodded before ambling away just in time to avoid the appearance of Tobias Fornell. "Hiding something, Gibbs?"

For once Gibbs didn't engage the other man in a staring contest. He looked down at the coffee cup that was left to cool. "Why would you suspect a thing like that?" he asked lightly, eyes still looking over the desk, finding more meaningless details. Two pencils with gnawed off erasers. A bottle of Ibuprofen. A validated parking pass. He swallowed thickly and chewed on his cheek.

"I know that you and DiNozzo-"

Gibbs chuckled without humor. There it was, that Italian pronunciation. "Oh, I know I won't be on this case, Tobias."

Fornell almost looked relieved.

"But you will be keeping me in the loop," Gibbs finished, his words firm, as if there was no doubt about it. "And you will not be screwing this one up."

"It's already pretty screwed up, Gibbs. You might not like what we find."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Gibbs spat in return, nearly ramming the office chair all the way under the desk. "Something I should know about, Tobias?" He didn't bother hiding the heat from his voice. DiNozzo was getting zipped up in a body bag, and Gibbs - as his boss _and_ his friend - was going to _damn well _figure out what the hell was going on.

Fornell appeared unmoved, yet not completely unsympathetic. "They're going to be asking you and your team some questions, as you should already know." He paused, before adding somewhat hesitantly, "Agent McGee. He was the one who-"

"Yeah," Gibbs confirmed succinctly. "He had to make that call. He shot him."

"_Jesus_," Fornell cursed under his breath, looking down at the floor for a moment. When he looked up again, Gibbs was leaning his hip against the desk and rubbing at his chin. "He'll be put on administrative leave, of course. And hopefully…"

"Hopefully what? Hopefully he gets over being forced to make that decision in a week's time?" Gibbs was always one to be blunt.

"Hopefully we figure out what was going on between your agent and the director," Fornell replied with a voice edged with steel.


	4. Chapter Three

HELL BENT

* * *

><p>Chapter Three<p>

_Two Weeks Previously_

"This has got to be a joke," Tony's voice traveled throughout the third floor like a mournful moan. "A sick, cruel joke." From where he sat dejectedly - just to the side of a massive leaning tower of unfilled paperwork - Tony shot a doleful look towards his faithful partner. Or as he'd like to put it lately: "Faithful," in air quotes.

Studiously ignoring her coworker's not-so-subtle belly-aching - or belly-raking, depending on who one asked - Ziva carefully packed her gear bag. A small smile on her face, she leaned down to rifle through a drawer for a much needed something-or-another. She knew better than to bend over right in front of Tony, so instead she crouched, ensuring cover for herself and maximum reach inside the cavernous drawer. That's not to say Tony didn't glance in her direction anyway. It was funniest when he was surreptitious. _Men!_ She'd huff.

Not even McGee was immune to such hard-wired behavior. Sometimes.

Ah! There it was… an extra mag-lite.

For a moment, Tony had gone quiet, and Ziva made the mistake of thinking that he had abandoned his whine-fest and settled down to an hour or tow of old-fashioned ink pen usage. Like a dog with a marrow bone. Quiet. Content. Busy.

But Ziva knew Tony better than anybody gave her credit for. As soon as she zipped up her bag and flung it over her shoulder, Tony revved up his bitch and moan engine and began anew - waxing neurotic about the injustices done to him by somebody who ought to remain unnamed.

"I should be going with you," he stated morosely. "Working with the _task force_." Tony mentioned the "task force" with a touch of barely restrained esteem. He clearly hadn't cared when Ziva mentioned that he was getting a little too old to get excited over yet another so-called task force. "I like how it sounds," Tony had defended himself.

Ziva refused to reward his behavior with a response as she grabbed a few last minute items.

"-Punishment, isn't it-" he went on, the grumble-grumble routine setting in and festering.

Even if Ziva did not acknowledge him, she had to acknowledge the annoyed looks being shot in their direction from all around the open space. Everybody knew Tony DiNozzo of course as the most obnoxious yet effective agent in residence. That didn't help anybody's temper. Deciding to save them all from further grief, Ziva took a step towards Tony's desk and pinned him with a glare. "You need to shut it," she enunciated clearly.

Tony went quiet for a moment, and then he barked in amusement. "Shut what?" he asked innocently.

She did not dignify that with a direct response. "You should not be so suspicious of Gibbs' intentions, Tony," she diffused.

Tony leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "That's funny, coming from you, Zee-vah. Besides, I have a suspicious nature. I was born this way. Like Lady Gaga."

That earned him yet another scalding glare. "Lady who?"

"He's benched me," Tony broke in, moving back to the original topic. He mustered a look of woe that was almost convincing. He stared at the stack of paperwork.

Ziva looked at her watch and then looked back at Tony. This time his dejection looked genuine. "Yes, we know, but what were you expecting when you lipped off to practically every authority figure within a fifty mile radius. You brought this upon yourself."

Just as Ziva hoped we wouldn't but knew he could, Tony rose to the challenge. "One, it's 'mouthed off.' Two, Gibbs wasn't too happy with them, either. Three, according to your calculations, that would include the President of the United States, whom I most certainly did not _mouth off_ to, yet. Four, I had no idea Vance and what's-his-hoojie-face were such bosom-buddies."

Ziva narrowed her eyes. Oh, the game was definitely on. "One, pretty sure it is 'lipped.' Two, Gibbs' dislike of a person does not give you license to _lip off_. I will also add that Gibbs is unhappy with everybody lately, especially you. Three, 'yet' being the key word, Tony. Four, 'what's-his-hoojie-face' is the assistant director of the ATF."

"Oh yeah? Well-"

"Well, _what_, DiNozzo?" A voice snarled from the vicinity of the elevator.

The two agents froze before slowly turning towards their boss' stormy glare. Tony blinked before automatically falling into the role of an ingratiating Labrador. "Hi boss! We were just-"

"I was just leaving, Gibbs," Ziva interrupted, her voice tight. "_He_ was just- I do not know."

"Well hurry up then, Agent David. You were supposed to be outta here fifteen minutes ago," Gibbs snapped. He watched as she spun on her heel, hitched the bag further up her arm, and stalked towards the elevator, not sparing another look back.

"Good luck, 'faithful' partner," Tony called out to her retreating back. "I'll have your six in spirit." He couldn't keep the jab contained, although after he said it, he had to commend himself for his abject lack of tact.

"And as for you," Gibbs rounded on his senior field agent. He actually took a step forward into the other man's space.

Tony did not back down, being one of the few who could look Gibbs in the eye and not whither into dust. He didn't even flinch, instead choosing to reason, "Boss-"

"Shut up and sit down," Gibbs demanded before stepping away with a stiff legged gait. He had pulled his punch significantly, and Tony knew it.

Tony ground his teeth together in frustration, but he knew when to pick his fights. This was neither the time nor the place. "Shutting up and sitting down," he replied while passing a brief look at the heap of unfinished business that McGee had so kindly passed on to him before he too departed on his own field assignment.

That really got Tony's goat. Even McGee got to go out and show those bad guys what for, while Tony got the privilege of hand cramps, carpal tunnel, and lower back pain. He had to hand it to Gibbs; his idea of punishment was working. Tony was deeply regretting that altercation with - as Ziva had so kindly reminded him - the assistant director of the ATF.

And then there was Vance, who seemed to regard him lately with a particularly scalding brand of clinical disdain. The two of them had never seen eye to eye, but this was something new. Sure, Tony had overstepped his bounds on several occasions… On too many occasions, and lately it had become habitual.

Gibbs had squeezed his senior field agent for details with the delicacy of a garlic press. _Burnout_, Tony had wanted to say on several occasions. The team was just having a bad run of cases.

Tony breathed out a sigh as he picked up a pen.

"Something wrong, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked quietly, blue eyes peering over his reading glasses. To the uninitiated, those reading glasses seemed to soften his bearing; Tony knew better than that.

"All's well over here, boss," Tony replied. He waved a file in the air.

Gibbs nodded before looking back down at the paper he was reading. "Good."

All wasn't well two days ago when Gibbs first relegated Tony to desk duty.

In stubborn protest, Tony did little but snipe and snap at those who passed too close to his desk. People began avoiding him. Everybody on the third floor knew that a deskbound Tony was no better than a dog chained to a post. Even Ziva tread cautiously around him, afraid of his sour mood. McGee only dropped off paperwork at Tony's desk when there was no sign of him. The last time he'd done that in Tony's presence, an entire file ended up "accidentally" all over the carpet.

The resulting isolation only led to more pent up frustration. Tony's reign of terror resumed for a third day- until he snapped at Gibbs.

He might as well have kicked a sleeping bear in the gut. Gibbs shoved his recalcitrant ass into an interrogation room, and while attempting to grind him into a wall, he proceeded to gently inform Tony that he'd be filling a vacancy at Mickey D's if he didn't adjust his attitude in the next fifteen minutes.

"You know what I spend the last two hours doing, DiNozzo?" Gibbs had articulated, staring down his best and most difficult agent.

"Not letting me do my job?" Tony ventured sourly.

"No, I spent the past two hours trying to explain to an entire panel that you're worth keeping. After that glaring display of _stupid._"

This time Tony kept his mouth shut.

"So you will keep your mouth shut, Agent DiNozzo, and you will sit down at that desk, and you will do everybody's goddamn paperwork. And when somebody asks you how you're liking your day, you say, 'I like it very much, sir. Better than cleaning grease traps.' Do you understand me, DiNozzo?"

Tony blinked.

"Do. You. Understand?"

"Yeah, boss." A pause. A subtle ducking of his head. "Yeah, I understand."

"Good." Gibbs backed away. "I'm going to let McGee assume your duties-"

Tony was already opening his mouth to protest.

"-For the time being," Gibbs finished. A flinty look dared Tony to protest again. "And Tony- I can fight my own battles. You don't have to be my guard dog." Tony flinched just a little when Gibbs tapped him on the cheek in that weird way of his. "Oh, and off the record, you were right about that ATF guy. He is an asshole."

Tony watched Gibbs turn away. "Does that mean we're good, then?" He was hopeful.

Gibbs paused. "If you get through that paperwork today without trying to kill anybody? Sure, Tony. We'll be good."

After that, Tony behaved. At least when Gibbs was around.


	5. Chapter Four: Part One

HELL BENT

* * *

><p>Chapter Four: Part One<p>

_Present_

It was quiet in here. Quiet and adequately stuffy. He was alone. Just Timothy McGee, NCIS Agent extraordinaire, a swift assessor of threats.

In this oppressive silence, his ears still rang from the chaos that had occurred upstairs. Tony's shouts, like something feral. The concussion of the gunshots, one after the other, ripping at his inner ear. A body reeling into a wall. The thud had seared itself into his memory. And much like a brand, it would never go away.

Hearing it had been bad enough. Still seeing it was the worst. When he closed his eyes, Tim did not see black. He relived the scene, over and over, as vibrant and violent as the moment it had occurred during.

Tim had both of his hands palms down on the tabletop. They still shook slightly as the adrenaline left his body, and his palms also tingled like they always did after firing his weapon. It was a familiar feeling. He was used to it, yet he wasn't sure he'd ever be truly _used to_ it. Not after this.

His hands left sweaty marks on the table as he reached for the coffee Dorneget had fetched for him. Tim thought distantly that caffeine was probably not the best thing for his present condition, but it was what was on hand. It was black. No cream. No sugar. Tim had insisted that black was fine. The bitterness would keep him alert. It would taste horrible, much like punishment. But Dorneget - way too eager to accommodate - insisted on finding some creamer. Which was why the younger agent was just now stepping back through the door.

"Hey, Agent McGee?" Dorneget asked in a small voice.

Tim was turning the Styrofoam cup with his trembling fingers. He looked up as the other agent placed a jug of hazelnut Coffeemate next to the cup. Condensation was already beading on the plastic. It was going to leave a mark on the table. He could hear his grandmother muttering about coasters.

He must have been staring at it for too long because suddenly Dorneget was pouring some of the off white liquid into the coffee. "It's all I could find," he apologized, explaining away the inadequacy of hazelnut creamer. It was ridiculous, Tim was thinking to himself. Hazelnut was as good as any of the others: French vanilla, Irish cream, Amaretto…

Tim spotted the piece of masking tape semi-adhered to the bottle. It bore the name "DiNozzo" in fading red sharpie. Gibbs' writing. Tony's name.

Dorneget was filling the silence with more aimless chatter while stirring the coffee with a Bic pen. A _new_ pen, he had been assured. But Tim was not really hearing any of it, not over the phantom voices that were inspired by a piece of ratty masking tape with a few letters scribbled onto it.

"_I think the HR women are using my creamer."_

"_I would not think you would mind, Tony. You are spreading the joy of creamer."_

"_Just put your damn name on it, DiNozzo. McGee, put this on the bottle."_

"_What? Why me?"_

"_Don't play dumb. I know you've been swiping some of it, too, Probie."_

"Agent McGee?" A hesitant voice was calling out. Reeling him back in. "Are you okay?"

Tim realized that he was laughing under his breath. His shoulders were hitching back and forth. Maybe he was crying. Maybe he was both laughing and crying. "Yeah, I'm okay," he lied. 'No, I'm not okay,' he wanted to scream. 'I just double-tapped my coworker in the chest. My _friend_.' But he didn't say anything of the sort. Instead, he covered up the anguish with a meek, distant voice, "Thanks for the coffee."

Tim sipped at it half-heartedly. It was lukewarm, weak, and very sweet. It clung to his tongue and coated the back of his throat. It almost made him choke. Almost ignited the nausea that had been lingering below the surface of his pseudo composure.

The conference room door blasted open with a force that almost took out the nearby potted ficus. Tim nearly dropped the coffee in surprise. Dorneget wasn't quite that lucky. He'd been reaching to take the coffee creamer away during the precise moment he had all but jumped out of his skin. His hand slapped clumsily at the slick plastic, still fumbling as the thing fell over. Milky white creamer fanned across the polished tabletop. Heart thudding somewhere in his throat, Tim stared at the mess as if it was the most fascinating thing ever.

"Damnit Dorneget. Get that out of here." It was Gibbs of course. No one else would charge into a room in that way - that way which lacked any modicum of restraint. Tim was in for it now. He was going to meet his maker, or at least, he was going to meet the angry-side of Gibbs reserved for killers.

Even though he knew the truth was that they all were killers. In one way or the other. That was one thing he had learned during his years at NCIS. It was what delineated Special Agent Timothy McGee from regular, everyday Tim.

A lifetime ago, Tony had helped him understand, when Tim had shot that cop.

Watching Dorneget practically fall over himself as he mopped up the mess of fragrant liquid, Tim spoke, "It's not his fault, boss."

"Not yours, either." Gibbs was crossing the room, taking a seat beside Tim, not across from him. Tim turned his wary gaze on the older man - a person he'd emulated yet swore to never be like. That was another thing he'd learned while at NCIS. And another thing that Tony had helped him understand. DiNozzo rule something-or-another: Never attempt to please someone who doesn't care to be pleased. Tony never followed his own rule. And Tim knew all too well what it looked like to fall out of favor with the one who'd never asked for such devotion.

Tony never talked about _that_, because _that_ was something the man couldn't help. It was ingrained into Tony's personality. Hero-worship gone topsy-turvy. An instinct to protect and preserve, no matter what, come hell or high water.

And here Tim thought he never knew what made Very Special Agent DiNozzo tick.

"Not your fault, either," Gibbs was repeating, more than likely in response to Tim's vacant stare. His boss wasn't talking about spilled coffee creamer anymore.

He hadn't noticed that Dorneget had vanished along with the mess the young agent had made. It was just the two of them now. Gibbs sitting next to him, seemingly as a partner rather than an adversary.

"Boss, I'm sorry." It sounded lame even to Tim's ears, and he was the one who said it. What kind of platitude was sufficient for something like this? Sorry, boss. Sorry that I shot your favorite coonhound.

Gibbs didn't respond, although his body did stiffen in his chair. "No, Tim, _I'm_ sorry." His voice was low, gentle even, which made this situation all the more surreal. "Whatever was going on with DiNozzo… I should have known."

"Can't know everything," Tim suddenly replied. He hated admitting it out loud, that Gibbs, too, was merely a person.

That almost earned him a chuckle from Gibbs. "Yep."

"How's, uh, how's the director?" Tim felt odd asking.

"Hanging in there, last I heard," Gibbs answered honestly.

Tim could feel the man's blue gaze studying him, reading him like a book that had fallen open to a much needed page. Tim was asking the next question before he'd had the chance to stop himself. "And Tony?"

Tim remembered his garbled question from earlier. When he was still upstairs, outside the office that reeked of burnt gunpowder. He still felt the burn in his nostrils. He'd smell that stench forever.

"_Tony?"_

"_DiNozzo's fine. Just breathe. You did good. Pull yourself together."_

He'd known that wasn't the truth, even while deep in his murky state of shock.

Gibbs was calling out to him now. He wasn't even a foot away, but it might as well been miles. "McGee? Tim?"

Tim blinked and twitched. Gibbs had said something else, but he hadn't been listening. He'd been feeling the trigger under his finger, feeling the resistance, feeling the recoil.

"I shot him," Tim swallowed thickly. He didn't need Gibbs to tell him that DiNozzo was dead. He'd watched it with his own two eyes. Like a voyeur.

Gibbs replied with, "Yeah, you did."

Tim didn't know on what planet that reassuring sentiment belonged. Clearly not on earth, not on this plane of reality.

"FBI's going to ask you some questions. Okay?" Gibbs pressed on, while nodding at the halfway closed door. He had a weird way of coddling, and apparently Tim's allotted session was over.

Neither one of them flinched when the door edged open further to reveal a suit carrying a tape recorder and a notepad. Tim hadn't the energy to pass him more than a cursory glance.

"Special Agent McGee," the man droned as he seated himself across from Tim. "I'm Agent Thomas, FBI." The room waited a few moments for an acknowledgment that would never come. The suit brushed it off as if nothing had happened, which actually wasn't far from the truth. "I just want you to recount what happened this morning, while it's fresh."

Tim's palms pressed against the tabletop. "I don't know what happened," he retorted, a sudden edge in his voice.

"You were the one who intervened?" Agent Thomas pressed.

_Intervened_ was one way to put it. _Intervened_ with deadly force. "Sure," Tim muttered.

"Start with when you got in this morning," Gibbs coached, eyes locked on his agent.

Tim breathed out and nodded, slowly at first, and then with a bit more conviction. "Okay."

The room waited as Tim focused on the potted ficus. "I came in late…"


	6. Chapter Four: Part Two

**Note:** THANK YOU to all who put this story on alert or left reviews! I appreciate it like WHOA, and I LOVE reading your opinions, particularly some of your speculations. Please do not hesitate to leave criticism or suggestions, etc. Also, I'm sorry that I haven't replied personally to all of the reviews. I'm going to make it my goal to do so from now on. And sorry for the wait! Like everybody else, I'm busy (not really an excuse), and I like to make sure each chapter is at least vaguely coherent. (:

**Possible Warning:**This chapter might contain images of a certain someone getting shot which again _might_ be disturbing. It's not _that_ bad, I promise. Probably in between PG13 and R or something. If you hadn't guessed, it's kind of a recurring nightmare for our McGee.

Onwards!

* * *

><p><span>Hell Bent<span>

* * *

><p>Chapter Four: Part Two<p>

"I came in late," Tim began, a nervous island unto himself, regardless of the fact that his boss sat by his side, anchoring him in the present. The other agent sat directly across from Tim. He had hawkish eyes that seemed capable of gazing straight through a person's thick skull. Tim willed himself not to throw up. There was plenty of time to throw up later, away from Mr. FBI's aggressive stare.

He took in a breath. "Later than usual, anyway. Maybe 8:45. I got off the elevator. Saw Ziva at her desk. And Tony wasn't there…"

* * *

><p><em>Earlier That Morning<em>

The first thing Tim saw when the elevator doors opened was Tony's vacant desk. Thank god. He always had something to say whenever Tim arrived after Tony himself… which, typically, was every damn day.

Tim was breathing hard by the time he pushed into the quiet bullpen. Sure, he had taken the elevator - something they all seemed to enjoy abusing - but he was late and he was stressed and he had just sprinted from the furthest end of the parking lot. Composing himself, he scurried towards his desk.

"You're just in the kick of time," Ziva said by way of greeting. She didn't even look away from her computer screen and the endless pages of emails that she failed to ever delete.

Tim seriously thought that hoarding ten thousand plus emails over a span of several years should be against the law. "Nick," he corrected Ziva automatically as he threw his bag under his desk.

She looked at him, head cocked slightly. "Who?"

"I'm just in the _nick_ of time," Tim completed the sentence, corrected idiom and all.

"Huh." Ziva did not appear in the least bit concerned. She looked back at her emails, clicking and typing with considerable abandon.

Tim sat for a moment at his desk, looking around for a bit. Sometimes it took him a minute or two to get into "work mode." That was yet another thing Tony constantly jabbed him about.

"What's wrong, McConfused?" he'd ask with faux curiosity. "Lost in Mordor?" It was even worse this past week or two, with Tony's jurisdiction confined to a desk. DiNozzo was a field agent with an emphasis on _field agent_. When he wasn't expending energy out in the field, then he was expending energy doing other various, annoying things_. _Like baiting coworkers, especially McGee.

Abby assured him it was because Tony had a _thing_ for him, but not like _that_. She'd said it all with a perfectly certain smile. _It's a special little friendship_ - she had explained - _that he feels he has to nurture with some good-natured teasing. _

Yeah. _Good-natured_ didn't exactly seem appropriate. More like mean-spirited and, on occasion, antagonistic.

Abby was right, though. For the most part. If Tony didn't like him, Tim would have been booted off the team a long time ago.

Breathing in relief, Tim looked briefly towards where Tony should be. The man was in the building, lurking somewhere, maybe Abby's lab. His coat was draped over the desk chair, and there was a cup of coffee waiting by the computer mouse. "So what am I in time for?" Tim suddenly asked, looking towards Ziva.

"Gibbs," she answered. "He is in rare form this morning."

"It's probably just 'regular form,'" Tim remarked with a frown. But he then asked anyway, "Why?"

"Something about something up in MTAC. He is very angry." For some unknown reason, Ziva was smiling about this. She really was a masochist, rejoicing in workplace discord.

"So is that why Tony is in hiding?" Tim moved his chair to the side. "Wait… is he hiding under the desk?"

At that, Ziva's smile faded into a more neutral shrug. "No, he is upstairs. With the Director."

"That doesn't sound good. Did he say anything before he went up?"

"He did not. To tell you the truth, he was not very… Tony-ish… this morning." Again, Ziva shrugged. "Last night-" She stopped herself before shaking her head. "It is not really my place to tell."

Tim was giving her a disturbed look. "Really?"

"It was not what you think, McGee. He just came over and he… He was acting a bit bizarre. Like he wanted to say something but could not. Then again, he is often like that. He ate all of my cheesecake." Ziva looked over Tim's right shoulder, staring at nothing in particular.

"Okay," Tim replied slowly. "Knowing DiNozzo, he's probably just getting his just desserts up there. For what happened, you know?"

"I hope he saves me a cookie," Ziva interjected, but before Tim could either correct her or laugh in her face, she suddenly looked alarmed. "Oh! I just remembered… that something up in MTAC. It was something about a computer. I think Gibbs was looking for you…"

Tim jumped to his feet in alarm, scanning the terrain for one very angry boss. Of course, he was nowhere to be seen, so Tim glared at Ziva. "You forgot about that on purpose, didn't you?" he accused.

She smiled like a cat who had just nabbed an innocent pet bird.

"I think you've been spending too much time around DiNozzo," he scowled.

Tim stood up and hurried towards the stairs. He felt his side. Damnit, he'd forgotten to secure his weapon in its drawer. He almost turned around to do just that, but then the boss-man's pissed off glare loomed in his mind. Yeah, he could deal with the gun later. After all, it was practically invisible under his suit coat.

He took the stairs two at a time. Tim heard the shouting match before he even had a chance to fully process anything that was going on.

Someone was hollering from up above. "GUN!"

Tim nearly tripped over his own feet. He caught himself with a hand as he finally made it to the top. That was when the first shot broke the morning peace, at least for the folks still oblivious down below. A string of loud curses came from the Director's office. On instinct, Tim grabbed at his side before colliding into the Director's secretary. He pushed her to the ground when the next shots came, a quick series of three. _Crack crack crack_, and then an echo. The secretary was like a wild-eyed horse, cowering by the sturdy banister. "Stay down," Tim hissed.

After that, his sense of time was fucked. With a buzzing mind, Tim lost track of his reactions. It was all instinct and training at this point. He held out his weapon and all but crashed into the office. "Federal agent!" he bellowed, as if that would be any type of surprise - or impediment - for the only two occupants of the room.

"Shoot him, god damnit!" The Director was shouting like something possessed. The man was on the floor, clutching his bleeding appendages. "SHOOT HIM!"

The offending weapon was still raised. Pointing at Director Vance. A finger was still on the trigger.

But Tim was in the same position, ready to fire.

In a single split of a second, Tony turned towards Tim. He looked caught off guard, surprised even. But even more than that, there was panicky shock in his eyes. Either because of what he'd just done, or because his colleague was now about to blow him away. Or both.

From Vance again, "GOD DAMN-"

Everybody knew Tony's gun was still loaded. Everything happened too fast.

Tim squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession. Tony made a strange noise, a hybrid of a yelp and a groan and a wheezing gurgle. It was the most horrific sound he'd ever heard, and it would follow Tim to the grave.

* * *

><p><em>The Present<em>

"He was looking at me," Tim barely managed to recount. "I knew that he was-" He stopped, stumbling over his own tongue, and then tried again, "I didn't know what to do. For him, or for anybody."

Tim felt his own breathing quicken. He felt it catch in his throat on occasion. The FBI agent in front of him had already faded away, and Tim was in that damn office again, heaving in gun smoke as he replayed the beginnings of hyperventilation. "He kept looking at me. He was groaning or _something_. And I didn't- I wanted-"

He'd wanted to drop the gun and skid to his knees next to Tony's body. He'd wanted to grab him by his bloody chest and shake him. He'd wanted to scream "why" several times, but also tell him everything was going to be okay. Everything was gonna be fine. It was just a flesh wound. And he wanted to see Tony grin in that stupid way of his and wipe the blood off his mouth with a sleeve, a motion like a child's. _"I'm fine, McCan'tAim."_ Maybe it was corn syrup and food dye. Maybe it was strawberry syrup. Come tomorrow, they would all be laughing. Even Gibbs would crack a smile and show some teeth, like a wolf. And everything would be fucking perfect.

"He just kept looking at me," Tim repeated. "And I couldn't tell if he was…"

Tim felt a hand touch his shoulder. He flinched. Gibbs was speaking into his ear, "We get it, Tim."

The FBI suit suddenly spoke. "He was dead at that point, I presume." It was perhaps the most obvious statement of the day, and it wasn't even tempered by a single shred of sympathy. This guy was like a pit dog, bull dozing around and ripping out the throats of whoever happened to be standing too close.

Tim swallowed convulsively. He couldn't figure out who this guy was after. Him, or Tony, or the whole of NCIS. Finally, he simply answered, "Yes, sir. I, uh, think so-"

"Agent McGee." The man was moving on swiftly. "You said you were armed when you went upstairs. Is this true?" His gaze hadn't mellowed. The man was inscrutable and unfeeling, as if he had been carved from a slab of granite.

Tim was forever grateful for the hand that was still resting on his shoulder. Gibbs wasn't known for his tenderness, but in this instance, the team leader was going out on a limb for all the right reasons. "Yes," Tim answered, prompted by the slight squeeze of Gibbs' hand. "I was. I hadn't yet secured my weapon."

"Is this common in your workplace?" If it was even possible, Agent Thomas' demeanor became even flintier.

"Sometimes," Tim stammered. He had to be honest; he was a horrible liar. "We have to go from one place to the next place, and then out into the field. Sometimes it's best to keep it nearby."

Agent Thomas was nodding, as if he could agree. But then he frowned. "You said you heard somebody shout that there was a gun. Can you recall who that was?"

Opening his mouth to reply, Tim discovered that he had no answer. God, it was the easiest question, in theory. Tony might have yelled it. Sounded kind of like him, whenever he took on his urgent, shouting, impending-danger voice. But he couldn't be sure. It was garbled in his mind. It could have been Vance. Sounded kind of like him…

What kind of partner was Tim? He couldn't even tell Tony's voice from the Director's. He leaned forward suddenly, planting his elbows so hard on the table that it hurt. Gibbs' grasp on his shoulder fell away, and Tim raked his fingers roughly through his own hair.

"Who said 'gun,' Agent McGee?"

"I don't know," Tim finally answered, voice frank and flat. "I honestly do not know. The more I think about it, the more I don't know." He ran his palms down over his forehead and then over his cheeks. "Might have been Tony," Tim choked out. "Maybe if Vance was grabbing for his gun." He rubbed his cheeks. For some strange reason, Tim felt like he had blood on his face. He wanted to take a shower. He wanted to scrub himself raw.

Agent Thomas goaded him along now. "Is that what you saw, Agent McGee?"

All Tim saw was Tony's body lying there on the floor. Contorted unnaturally. Groaning as his foot scraped weakly, perhaps reflexively, against the carpet. Eyes staring. In shock, in fear, in pain. It might have taken two minutes for Tony to die while Tim stood nearby like some dumb scarecrow.

Gibbs was nudging him. "What?" Tim asked, bewildered and shaking.

"Did you see Director Vance reach for a gun?" Agent Thomas repeated patiently.

"No," Tim shook his head.

"I know you already went over it before, but I just want to clarify." The man tapped his steno pad with a pen. "What _did_ you see when you entered the office?"

Tim dragged his teeth over his bottom lip so hard it could have drawn blood.

Now it was Gibbs who leaned close to speak in his ear. "What did you see, Tim?"

"DiNozzo." Tim's shoulders hitched once and then froze. "Tony had shot the Director."

The FBI agent pressed, "And Director Vance ordered you to neutralize the threat?"

Tim nodded.

"In your professional opinion, did Agent DiNozzo appear like he was fully prepared to take another shot at Director Vance?"

"Maybe," Tim muttered.

"Maybe?" Agent Thomas did not look pleased in the least bit. He leaned forward slightly. "It's a yes or no question, McGee."

Tim bit out, "I don't know. His finger was on the trigger, so yeah more than likely-"

"Did Agent DiNozzo seem motivated to continue his attack?"

That was when Gibbs bristled. "If DiNozzo was truly motivated," he spat with barely restrained ire. "Vance would be the one in the morgue."

Agent Thomas blinked without amusement. "And would you prefer that, Agent Gibbs?"

"No one _prefers_ any of this," Gibbs ground out. "I'm just stating the facts. If DiNozzo's intentions were to kill the Director, he wouldn't need more than four rounds. Period."

Tim had hidden his face in his arms, body tense and trembling. He was done. Beyond done.

"Well, I think we're done here." The man pushed his chair back. It scraped obnoxiously against the floor. "I would like to speak to Agent David, however." With Gibbs still glaring daggers, the agent stepped towards the door. But before he slipped outside, he paused to glance at the top of Tim's head. "Sometimes our coworkers aren't who we thought. You saved the Director's life, kid."

The door clicked behind him, and Tim heaved in a shaky sigh, his arms still hiding his face that was now slick with more than one tear. _God, not in front of Gibbs…._

If Gibbs noticed that Tim was crying, he didn't give any indication. He spoke simply, "You did your job, McGee."

_Yeah, my job_, Tim thought ruefully as he shook his head. If this was part of the job description, then he was done with it.


	7. Chapter Five

**Note:**What? Another chapter already? Yes. Indeed. Here's more "meat" for the story.

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p>Chapter Five<p>

_About a Week Previously_

Barely a few days into his quasi-suspension from field duty, Tony was already halfway bonkers from boredom. Spending most of the day without direct supervision, he was left to his own devices. Sometimes, he sat with a pen in his hand and a pile of requisition forms in front of him, and he looked suitably _busy._ But requisitioning things like latex gloves and double A batteries for the crime scene camera was actually far from his mind.

What he was really _busy_ with was observation.

Tony kept tabs on everybody and everything. He could hardly help himself, and soon he began noticing things he'd been too busy to notice before. He eavesdropped on the scuttlebutt. He "casually glanced" at documents "left in the open." He found patterns in the movements of the NCIS personnel. Everybody was suspect to his scrutiny.

The mail guy, for example, always checked the break room for fresh coffee or freebie snacks after circling the third floor. The Director's cute admin assistant often hid in the quiet hallway by the stairway to accept calls from her new girlfriend. The day janitor had learned Tony's "smack the snack machine" routine. The mousy looking guy whose name he could never remember took piss breaks at ten, noon, and two like clockwork. The forever-nervous probie Dorneget always walked around like he didn't know what to do with his hands. And whenever the guy caught Tony's gaze, he touched his hair self-consciously and changed directions, one time nearly walking straight into Gibbs' chest.

Sometimes, when Tony's teammates got close enough to his observation post, he'd explain his findings in detail. He needed to talk to _someone_, and Gibbs had taken to turning around and walking away whenever Tony opened his mouth - although if one looked _really_ closely, they could see a smidge of a smile on the older man's face. McGee and Ziva were a little more patient, although they couldn't help passing each other badly hidden smirks.

"No," Tony had defended himself. "I'm not being nosy. I'm being vigilant. There's a difference, you know..."

Of course that had also been the moment when Gibbs stalked up behind him, slapped his head and barked something that could have been, "How about you start being _vigilant_ about my damn requisition forms! I need more double A batteries! Ziva keeps leavin' the damn camera on in its case!"

As if it was Tony's problem that Ziva was under the misconception that the Nikon operated solely on sunshine and happiness, along with a touch of blood and gore. If Tony was out in the field, _he_ would take loving care of the stupid camera and McAnalRetentive would be in charge of the requisition forms. The team would be swimming in so many damn double A batteries that they could switch the Nikon to video mode and start filming their own version of "Inside the Real NCIS."

Now _that_ would be fun.

But Tony didn't want to be bitter. After all, Gibbs had taken the time to show him the light by ramming him against that wall and screaming his ear off in one of the interrogation rooms. Tony was as stubborn as an old donkey, but he knew the boss had taught him a lesson he ought to heed. He was far from _stupid_.

So when Tony sidled back to his desk after an hour-long lunch break, he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to finish these requisition forms sooner rather than later. He sat slowly, cautiously. His body was achy as hell lately, but he would willingly sucker punch the first person who would dare say it was because of the damp weather. Sure, he was no spring chicken, but he wasn't _Gibbs_ for god's sake. Not that Gibbs was _old_ old.

Tony had many years behind him chasing people, tackling people, saving people, getting assaulted by people. Running, jumping, diving, weaving, climbing, falling. Pushing himself to the limits, breaking a few bones here and there. So what? He was a little sore. He was _entitled_ to a little soreness, as long as it wasn't debilitating. And he would continue bulldozing through life until he fell over dead or paralyzed or otherwise useless and used up.

The boss was the old fart who had the brilliant mind and had earned his keep. And he was still Tony's boss and would be until Tony chose otherwise. Gibbs didn't need to run as fast or jump as high, because that was Tony's job. Well, increasingly it was _Ziva's_ job, but Tony was as game as ever. He would do_ anything_ for Gibbs. Just like he would do _anything_ for Ziva or McGee or Abby or Ducky.

Tony wheeled his chair closer to the desk and pulled out the paper sack from his coat pocket. He dug out the prescription bottle and studied it. Ziva and McGee weren't around. Probably still at lunch somewhere, seeing as Tony left earlier than them. They had invited him, of course. Ziva had been happy to do so, smiling guilelessly, while McGee hovered around, probably suffering from hunger pangs. But nope, Tony had some errands to run, one of which he now held in his hand.

He didn't need to get _rid_ of the pain. He just needed to manage it. Tolerate it. The aches made him grumpy and irritable as hell, and he knew that was half the reason he nearly ripped off the ATF assistant director's head. Tony shook the pills around in the tube-shaped bottle before grabbing the empty generic-brand Ibuprofen container and dumping them unceremoniously inside. He took two with some cold coffee and grimaced. Tony and traditional painkillers didn't particularly get along, but the doctor had assured him that this was a non-opiate medication, kind of like a super strong OTC med, so he could live with that. He could also live with leaving Ducky out of the loop. The last thing Tony wanted to do was announce to the agency that he was in pain and he needed to dull it. That was a one-way ticket to a desk sentence.

Tony settled down now, staring at the requisition form, and slowly - oh so slowly - started to fill in the blanks. That is, until he saw Director Vance of all people leaning over a distant, vacant desk and using its landline phone. Tony let his pen hover. He was almost frustrated with himself. When had he become so damn ADD? But now his curiosity had been piqued, and he knew nothing short of getting walloped in the head could stop him from following-up on this. The Director had his own phone upstairs, and even though the other folks working around that desk did not appear in the least bit disturbed, Tony had a _gut feeling_ about this. And his gut feelings, Tony was proud to declare, usually led to something.

Soon Vance set down the phone and stepped casually away from the desk. The man straightened his jacket and strode towards the stairway. As soon as the Director was out of sight, Tony grabbed a random piece of paper and limped stiffly across the bullpen, appearing as if he was making a quick trip to the copier… The super special _color_ copier that could not only print, but could also bind pages together. And of course that expensive piece of government equipment was located clear on the far side of the third floor, and to get there, one would have to pass by the very desk Vance had been leaning over.

"Agent DiNosey strikes again," Tony whispered to himself.

He paused by the phone that sat innocently on the empty bit of office real estate. The desk had been used at one time by an intern, more than likely. There were no personal effects. No pens or papers. No computer, even. Nobody was watching Tony, except for one or two who passed him a busy "hey DiNozzo" before rushing away. He played with the phone, taking just a moment to pull up the recently dialed numbers. Tony quickly scribbled the digits on the piece of paper. He waited a second before picking up the handset and tapping re-dial. As he listened to the soft ringing in his ear, he leaned a hip against the desk.

An answering machine picked up.

"You've reached Dr. Samantha Ryan. Please leave-"

Tony almost dropped the phone before ultimately slamming it back into its cradle. Suddenly, he was mugged from behind by a surprisingly strong set of arms.

"Tony, Tony, Tony, Ton-eyyyy!"

He whirled around and smiled in relief as soon as his eyes landed on Abby's exuberant face. "Hey Abs, what's-"

She latched onto his arm and started hauling him back towards his desk. "I've been looking for you _everywhere_, mister!" Abby scolded, turning her bright green eyes onto him. "Timmy told me you were being Mr. Crankypants and wouldn't go to lunch with him and Ziva. And _me!_"

"Well, Abs," Tony started to explain. "I had some stuff to do, and I wasn't really hungry." He didn't want to go into the whole "people get not hungry" thing again, especially not with Abby who wouldn't believe him for a second. The truth was, even when Tony _wasn't_ hungry, he still ate. And ate and ate. He had the belly to prove it.

"I've missed your face. You're in this building all day, but I never get to _see_ you," she lamented before immediately launching into a story about nuns and bowling and turtles stranded on the highway.

But Tony found himself half-heartedly listening to Abby while his mind kept wandering to Dr. Ryan's answering machine.


	8. Chapter Six

**Note:** A lovely reviewer (deanmarty) brought up the question of when this story is set. Originally, I had thought Season 8, but what I _really_ meant was Season 9. Whoops! That would be Season 9 after Dr. Ryan was introduced, so that in this particular story, the team is familiar with her. Obviously, this story has become completely AU to whatever craziness happened in the finale. *wink wink* I hope you all continue to enjoy it. For this chapter, I've added a quote from a song for aesthetic appeal. (: To all of you reviewers... I've loved reading your thoughts!

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p>Chapter Six<p>

_"I don't know your thoughts these days_  
><em>We're strangers in an empty space<em>  
><em>I don't understand your heart<em>  
><em>It's easier to be apart"<em>  
><em>-<em>Keane

Leroy Jethro Gibbs moved with stiff, jerking movements as he stalked from one end of the building to the other. He had a fresh cup of coffee in hand. Something not-organic and not-artisanal - strong, pitch black and fragrant.

The third floor was still a mess, functioning like its leg had been broken, but at least the Bureau folks and the few stray local LEOs had cleared out earlier. An uncomfortable hush was left in their wake. The radio silence was segmented only by whispers and glances and bemused frowns.

DiNozzo was popular amongst his coworkers. Not always admired, but still popular because of his easy temperament, as well as his penchant for talking and talking and talking, and sometimes even listening. On occasion, Tony was also envied, due to his proximity to Gibbs. Everybody and their second-cousin wanted to join up with Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs - or they wanted to become just like him. Gruff, no-nonsense, hyper-focused.

Gibbs himself didn't know what was wrong with these people. They _should_ want to be like DiNozzo. They _should_ want to be normal, or at least a facsimile of it. Friendly yet cautiously open. Dedicated and courageous and unafraid to stand-up to the Gibbs-types of the world.

He always thought that DiNozzo was his perfect foil. Ever since he'd poached him from Baltimore, Gibbs knew he was something special. He was someone who could look him in the eye and say, "I don't think so, boss" and not wet himself while doing so. Gibbs knew DiNozzo was what he needed.

Of course with all that piss and vinegar, there were bound to be problems. Of course, right? Were ten plus years of guidance and comraderie not enough to calm an unruly spirit? Sure, there were a couple years spent astray. And DiNozzo had a long simmering beef with Director Vance.

Bull shit. Gibbs knew it when he smelled it.

DiNozzo had proved himself more than trustworthy. He had led the team in the past, and was more than ready to take charge of his own. He made his own decisions, good decisions, and he was smart and _usually_ judicious in his actions. If his issues with the Director had indeed boiled over in a sizzling mess, Tony would _never_ - He wouldn't _ever_ -

Would he?

Why all the doubt in his senior field agent _now_?

Gibbs let the bitter coffee slosh around on his tongue. The burn was satisfying.

The team's cluster of desks was deserted. Ziva had driven McGee home; he was still in shock, still a little shaky and mostly incoherent. Of course that interrogation hadn't helped matters, and all it really revealed were more questions. Questions without answers; Gibbs _needed_ answers. And Abby was… Gibbs was avoiding Abby, and it was becoming more and more obvious now that he was doing it deliberately. Instead of visiting her, he had occupied himself by overseeing things he wasn't meant to oversee. He gave his own statement, shared whatever background he thought relevant, and prodded Ziva for whatever details she knew.

Ziva had been like a robot, but after gathering McGee up in his roomy coat, she had turned and looked straight at her boss. "We need to ask ourselves _why_, Gibbs." And that was it. Ziva led her partner by the arm like a child, and she didn't look back.

Why, why, why.

Gibbs sat at his desk and scanned the documents he had pulled out for that morning. He hadn't gotten to anything today, for obvious reasons. It was like Gibbs' portion of the bullpen was frozen in time.

His fingers passed over the papers. Files, receipts, photographs, statement transcriptions, NCIC database printouts. Mismatched paperwork posing as a mess of evidence. It was all probably irrelevant to the CCHU cold case he had intended to peck away at, but such was the day-to-day life of an investigator. Gather, compile, review, gather, compile and review review review some more. Like digging holes in the dark with a spoon. Oftentimes, they were all digging for no reason, or scraping against concrete, or not digging where they ought to be digging.

This was stupid.

But still Gibbs craved a bone to gnaw on. Something to wrap his mind around. Something _understandable._ He thought it might be best to act as if nothing had happened.

Ziva had set the photocopies of DiNozzo's notepad on his desk. They mingled with everything else. Just sitting there. The black ink had dried hours ago. Gibbs would have been satisfied to sweep everything to the ground in a sudden surge of rage. But instead, with shoulders held straight and stiff, he started filing the cold case evidence away. Gibbs displayed his frustration in the form of organization, and after his desk was sufficiently tidy, he folded the photocopies carefully and pocketed them.

And then he got up to leave.

People passed him in the hallway. They slowed down in hesitation, as if they wanted to approach the man and extend something. But ultimately, all of them would veer away as if repelled by some magnetic force. Gibbs had decided that he didn't need any damn condolences. He was mad as hell, and that anger - dark and seething - radiated from him for all to see.

Gibbs knew, logically, that he should put this day to bed. He should go home, pour some bourbon into a mug, stare at the empty space in his basement, and come to grips with reality. Maybe he, too, was a little in shock. Maybe he had taken to stalking around the building without any real purpose. Just moving on reflex, waiting for DiNozzo to round the corner. Waiting for that damn smile and those quick hazel eyes. Waiting for him to say, "Hey boss. Looking for me?"

But Gibbs knew Tony wasn't here, and Tony definitely wasn't rounding any corners, or smiling, or saying anything. He was cooling his heels elsewhere, literally, in some refrigerated drawer. And all Gibbs was left with was anger. Lots of it.

Gibbs rammed through the door that led to the stairway. He didn't care that his shoulder screamed in protest. He invited the pain, welcomed it to grow and fester. "Well, DiNozzo," Gibbs spoke out loud. His voice mixed with the echoes of his footsteps in the cavernous concrete stairwell. "You really messed up this time."

* * *

><p>Dr. Mallard's morgue was in the belly of the building. He wanted the coolness and the quiet and the stark metal tables. He wanted his old friend's voice of reason.<p>

Gibbs pushed his way inside, letting the familiar yet strange smell of the place wash over him. The lights were on, but it was quiet at least. Ducky was sitting at his desk, gazing at some notes that either he or Palmer had taken. When Gibbs came closer, the old man finally looked up. He had the soft, warm eyes of a Corgi.

Silence prevailed until the older man graciously broke it, "You should go home, Jethro. It's half past six." His voice was as soft as his gaze.

"I know," Gibbs spoke simply. He leaned against the wall. His fingers played with the edges of the papers in his pocket, while his eyes wandered to the darkened recesses of his friend's domain. "I feel old, Duck," he said, voice flat and deflated.

Ducky chuckled mirthlessly. "I understand the feeling." His eyes flickered back and forth between his work and his friend.

"Yeah," Gibbs grunted. He ran a hand over his own bicep. Ultimately, Ducky pushed away the notes and turned his chair. Gibbs felt the other man's eyes studying him. He should have noticed that those eyes were bloodshot and exhausted. He suddenly felt selfish. "I'm sorry," he blurted, uncharacteristically.

Ducky blinked.

Gibbs continued, using a gentle tone he kept around for rare situations, "Sorry about Tony."

The old man looked at the floor. "I should be the one offering _you_ that particular condolence, Jethro."

"No," Gibbs countered quickly. "You two were close."

Ducky was giving him a curious glance. He paused and then said, "I can not believe that Anthony would-"

"Ziva says he wouldn't," Gibbs cut in.

"What do you think?"

Gibbs pushed away from the wall and again touched the paper in his pocket. He didn't answer.

Ducky frowned, but he knew his friend wasn't one for words. He changed tracks while cleaning the lenses of his glasses. "And how is our Timothy faring?"

Gibbs again said nothing. He only shook his head and looked towards the rows of cold storage drawers.

"That bad?" the old man ascertained.

"Bad."

Ducky's eyes followed his friend's gaze. The room was starkly barren. No bodies were waiting to be worked on. Palmer was not even rooting around the back room. The ventilation system suddenly clicked on, filling the room with a gentle hum. He was cautious with his words. "He's not here, Jethro."

A grunt came in reply. "I know."

"Are you going to visit him?"

Gibbs knew Ducky was watching him as he started to pace slowly. He ran a hand over the edge of one of the stainless steel tables. He watched his own fingers pass over the smooth metal, his knuckles gnarled from years of woodworking and other manual labor. He remembered Kate on this same table years ago, remembered that perfect hole in her forehead. He remembered Franks in a body bag. Jenny, too. And his two precious girls... It all seemed like a lifetime ago, and Gibbs attempted to recount how he felt then. Attempted to determine _what_ he should _feel_ because standing here touching this cold table lent him no hints whatsoever.

And he was ashamed because he felt _nothing_ but anger and frustration.

"I don't know," Gibbs spat. "I'm pissed at him, Duck." He rubbed at the dark blotches under his eyes. "That's the only thing I feel right now."

"That's understandable," Ducky murmured.

Somehow Gibbs didn't think his old friend was being truthful. DiNozzo was, in some weird way, practically family. Didn't he deserve something more than Gibbs' ever-present wrath? Gibbs thought so, privately, but on the outside he was made of stone. His face was set into a grimace. "I should feel something else. But I don't."

The two of them stared at the floor together.

"You really find solace in the dead, Duck?" Gibbs then asked.

"Sometimes, Jethro. Unlike their living counterparts, they never lie," Ducky replied.

Gibbs nodded, as if he had predicted as much. "I find solace in answers," he said at last. "I want to read that autopsy report. Can you get that for me?"

"I might be able to get it for you, as a friend." Even the medical examiner knew that Gibbs wouldn't be on this particular case in a professional capacity. "I know the woman at that particular location personally. Back when I first came to be employed with NCIS, she-."

"What if there was something wrong with him, Duck?" Gibbs budged in abruptly. "A brain tumor or something that made him crazy?"

The doctor sighed. "Possible, but unlikely."

"Yeah. But I need answers."

"What you need to understand, Jethro," Ducky treaded carefully. "Is that there may never _be_ answers."

Gibbs stood still. That was a logical argument, but it was something he could never agree with. He was an investigator. He had staked his life around finding answers to questions. For every action there was a reason, however abstract or ridiculous or poorly thought out. "Duck, get me that autopsy report. If not for me, then for Tony. Got it?"

He didn't wait for an affirmative. His back was already turned and his feet were already on their way out the door.


	9. Chapter Seven

**Note:**Thanks to the folks who put this story on alert! Very much appreciated. Didn't get much feedback on the last chapter, but that is okay because we are powering on! This chapter jumps around a fair bit, but everything is labeled. If it isn't, that means it's happening in the present (i.e. post-shooting). Also, some more details, or clues that might possibly _lead_ to more details, are in this chapter. Lots of stuff planned!

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p><em>"'Neath an avalanche, soft as moss<em>  
><em>I am a creeping and intangible sense of loss"<em>  
><em>-<em>David Gray

* * *

><p>Chapter Seven<p>

Everybody in NCIS was watching ZNN, or reading the news websites, or calling around to their buddies within the agency or at other agencies. Gibbs, too, had kept an eye on the news. The details the press pumped out for all to read were vague and scripted. Coached, perhaps, by slick PR officers. Law enforcement liked to keep both their dirty laundry and their skeletons under lock and key, heavily guarded by diffusion and "ongoing" investigations. What was a nightmare for Gibbs, his team, and everybody else close to them, was a veritable media circus for everyone else. It made good, gripping news and a real-life story of interest for civilians who liked to stay "informed." Crazy agents snapping under pressure were always a page-turner.

The news outlets were spelling it out in black and white.

DiNozzo was the villain, unhinged and vindictive. He lost his cool while being reprimanded by a superior. McGee was the hero. He intervened, saving a high-ranking official's life in the process while ending his co-worker's. Barely twelve hours after the incident, it was a headline explosion.

"NCIS Agent Killed in Shootout in Federal Building"

"NCIS Agent Shot Dead in DC Federal Building"

"FBI Probes Deadly Shooting Involving NCIS Agents"

And on and on. Different variants of the same thing. DiNozzo was dead. Shot to death.

More than once, Gibbs felt like unloading his Sig into the plasma television. It didn't sit well with him that his loyal agent was getting dragged through the mud. That was an understatement, actually. It _burned_ him like a knife embedded in his gut.

* * *

><p><em>About a Week Previously<em>

Dr. Samantha Ryan's office and the hallways outside of it were quiet at this time of day. It was late afternoon and a gorgeous day outside. Most had chosen this day to begin an early weekend, or to take an extra-extended lunch, or to just "work" out of doors. As much as she wanted to slip out of here and pick up her son for an afternoon watching swan-shaped paddleboats circumnavigate their favorite pond, Dr. Ryan had office hours to keep. She glanced at the clock and put down a thick textbook she'd been reviewing.

She could always trust Leon Vance to be punctual. In fact, she didn't know how he could manage to always arrive at the _same_ exact minute that he had promised. It was almost scary.

Dr. Ryan looked up as the man pushed through the door. He made sure to shut the door behind him. He didn't waste time on pleasantries. "How much do you know about DiNozzo?"

She leaned back in her office chair. "Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that question? You've been his boss for at least two years."

"This is your thing, isn't it?" he pressed. "Getting a read on people?" Vance fell into a seat opposite Dr. Ryan's desk. He crossed a leg and observed her expression. "I'll admit that I don't particularly like him."

She chuffed out an easy retort. "Sounds like a personnel problem, Leon."

Vance defended himself quickly. "It's not personal."

"I said _personnel,_" Dr. Ryan corrected him in amusement. She liked digging at Leon every once in a while. He had such a serious and resolute personality that it would serve him well to laugh at himself every once in a while.

"If it weren't for Gibbs, he'd be long gone," Vance growled.

Dr. Ryan frowned. "DiNozzo you mean?"

Vance only nodded. "He'd still be an agent afloat somewhere. Out of my hair."

"If you had any."

"What?"

"Hair." Dr. Ryan shook her head, smirking once more, before directly addressing Vance's original question. "So, what is it that you want to know?"

"I want your opinion on him. I have a strange feeling that he's up to something. Gibbs has got him on desk duty. He's sniffing around even more than usual."

"Hm, not entirely sure what you mean."

"I'm concerned," Vance attempted to explain. "That he knows _something_ about _something._"

"That's wonderfully vague, Leon. I'm sure an extroverted sensing thinker like DiNozzo knows _lots_ of somethings." Her voice was light, but there was something sharp hidden beneath the surface. It was a warning, or something akin to it. She didn't like where this conversation was going.

Vance paused. His eyes narrowed. "So what do you think of him? Other than the fact that he's an "extroverted sensing thinker" or whatever you said."

"For some people, that might be enough information, but I know you're not the type. So I'll offer you this bit of info: He's onto you. And I'll conclude with this bit of advice: Forget about using McGee. Pick somebody else."

"That's not possible," Vance shot back, eyes fiery. But as soon as his anger ignited, he stamped it out with a heavy boot of self-control. Frowning, Vance dug for the toothpick he'd tucked in the pocket of his slacks. He gnawed on it even as he spoke. "I can't just pick somebody else. It's not my decision anyway. I'm just the messenger." Vance fixed his gaze past Dr. Ryan, towards the window. A sudden look of intense agitation crossed his well-schooled face. "How the _hell_ does DiNozzo know?"

"He's one of those personality types," Dr. Ryan explained. "They like to know what's going on, and they like to be involved. When they're not involved, they'll figure out a way to _be_ involved. They always need to feel included, and even more than that, they need to feel useful. They don't think there's anything wrong with prying into a friend's or a stranger's personal life. They think they _need_ to know, because if they know, then maybe they can help. Do you see what I'm saying, Leon?"

"Yeah. You're saying he's a bona fide pain in the ass," Vance commented wryly. "Unfortunately, I'm already aware of that."

She was patient. "Tony is a protector, Leon, and a snoop. He's naturally curious. Add some determination to that and you have trouble. For you and for him, too." She rubbed her hand over the side of her face before letting her chin rest on her palm. "Tony knows something and soon Gibbs may know as well. I have to warn you, Leon. If Gibbs asks me about this directly, I'm going to tell him the truth. All of it."

Vance nodded vaguely, still nibbling on the toothpick. "We still have to go for McGee."

"Then you're going to have to do something about DiNozzo," Dr. Ryan deadpanned.

"That's why I need you," Vance pointed at her with the toothpick. "Scare him off. Confuse him with your smoke and mirrors, cloak and dagger shtick. Can't be that hard."

Dr. Ryan looked uncertain, for once. "I don't know if that will work."

"It better work, because if the CIA figures out that the speed bump on their highway is a nosy upstart from my own agency-" Vance shoved the toothpick back in his pocket before standing up. "I want him out of the way, Dr. Ryan. You've gotten close to Gibbs, which gives you access to his team. Figure something out. Play some mind games." He gestured around his own head.

"I'll try." She didn't much like the idea of using Gibbs for anything, especially not as the means to manipulate someone he was both professionally and personally close to. She thought talking to Tony directly might be more productive. "But I can't make any promises."

* * *

><p>For the first time in a long time, Ziva David smoked a cigarette. She wrapped herself in an oversized sweatshirt and leaned against the cold metal railing of her third floor balcony. She stared into the dark of her residential neighborhood. Live oaks and cherry trees were wreathed in moonlight. In just a couple weeks' time, the cherry trees would be in full pink bloom. Ziva had grown to love that about this area.<p>

Blowing smoke from her nostrils, she shivered in the chilly early spring air. She'd left the balcony door open, so that both soft light and the music from the living room could reach her lonely post outside. Letting the smoke linger in her lungs, she hugged herself and closed her eyes. The music was soothing; it was something that had already been in her CD player. Glenn Miller, she remembered. A loaner CD from Tony.

Ziva's one arm hugged herself tighter as she took in a shaky drag off the cigarette. A metal bar belonging to the railing was digging into her hip. It grounded her, just like her fingernails boring into her palms did.

Maybe she was going crazy, but if she imagined looking through her balcony door, she could see Tony sitting on the couch - a guest by his own invitation. She could see his smile, more like a lopsided grin, eyes shining. He sat in a way that took up as much space as possible. It suited his personality - large and in charge, while still open and welcoming. The warm light of the lamp cast a golden glow on his skin.

"Still drinking that three buck chuck, Zee-vah?" he'd say.

And she'd smile, playfully beguiling. She'd move gracefully through the shadows of the dimly lit room. Agile and half-naked as she rounded on him.

Soft music. Soft carpet. Soft kiss on his temple.

He'd talk and she'd listen, his breath warm on her ear. He'd smell like mint and pizza sauce, cheap wine and honesty. Hand touching his soft belly. Watching the wrinkles near his eyes. Hazel eyes green in the darkness, bright with laughter from a joke he'd made.

Remembering scars, planes, and contours. Places they'd been, places they were going.

Soft music. Soft carpet. His hand wrapped in hers, calm and loose like a long friendship. A candle that smells like lavender and thyme, flame flickering under a ceiling fan.

"It's so easy…" he'd say.

Ziva suddenly coughed, choking on the acrid cigarette smoke. The butt dropped forgotten to the concrete as she gripped tightly at the railing. Her eyes were watering as she opened them to stare blearily through the balcony door. She knew that the couch was vacant, as was the rest of her apartment. Still trying to catch her breath, Ziva sank to her haunches, hands grabbing out blindly to keep her balance. Her eyes burned now as tears sprang from somewhere ancient and hidden. They wet her cheeks and made her face prickle from the cold. Nausea made her stomach roll, and soon Ziva was gagging, hunched over her knees awkwardly. She panted and spat and swore at herself.

She was fantasizing about her fucking partner. Her fucking _dead_ partner.

* * *

><p><em>Last Night<em>

His clothes were rumpled. He looked like a bothered mess. Ziva almost turned him away, almost shut the door in his face. But his lip was bleeding, and he was shaking like a junkie off his fix.

"Tony? What is wrong with you? What is going on?" Ziva grabbed onto his arm, saving him from swinging into the floor. "Are you okay?" She pulled him inside and deposited him on the couch, where he sat very still, elbows on his knees, hands cupping his own face. "Are you okay, Tony?" she repeated, a little louder. Ziva reached for her mobile, which was laying on the glass coffee table. "Should I call Gibbs?"

Tony looked up suddenly, scraping at his bloody lip. "No, no. God no. It's fine. _I'm_ fine. I just need to, you know… unwind." He moved to lean back into the couch's soft embrace. His movements were slow and careful.

"Unwind?" Ziva stood in front of him. A frown worked its way onto her face, and her eyes were narrowed with both worry and anger. "It's midnight. I was chopping logs."

At that, Tony actually chuckled. "Chopping logs. I like that one." He then noticed that she probably _had_ been asleep. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, and she was wearing her pajamas… or at least a long shirt that managed to reach her mid-thigh.

She was quick to notice his wandering eyes. "Up here, Tony," she barked. "Now what is going on?"

"It's nothing," Tony quickly answered. "I ran into an old friend. That's all." He looked at Ziva's carpet. He opened and then closed his mouth, like he wanted to say something more. But he didn't.

Ziva watched her friend as he sat limp on the couch like a dead carp. She fetched a washcloth and dug something out of the fridge. "Does not look like a very friendly meeting to me," she commented doubtfully as she tossed him the cloth for his lip. She then set a plate of cheesecake on the coffee table for him. "That is my last piece. I need you to enjoy it."

"I don't need any cheesecake," Tony grumbled, dabbing at his lip. He suddenly had the good sense to act a little embarrassed. He kept his eyes averted from hers while giving the cheesecake a long-suffering look.

"You will enjoy it." Ziva sat next to him and took a look at his lip. "You are sure you are okay?"

"I'm fine." Tony again looked like he was going to say something else. Something other than that he was fine and that nothing was wrong. But again, he didn't. He only repeated, "I'm just fine, Ziva."

That night, Ziva had been tired, so she didn't force him to talk. She smiled not unkindly and kissed him on his nose. "Sleep on the couch if you want to. I will see you in the morning."

"Ziva, I-" Tony suddenly blurted. But when he actually gained her attention, he stalled. "I, uh." He blinked and licked his lips.

"Enjoy the cheesecake, Tony."

That next morning, the morning of the shooting, Tony and the cheesecake were gone before Ziva awoke. She saw him at work that morning; he was nervous and quiet, and he brushed her aside. A minute later he was walking up the stairs.


	10. Chapter Eight

**Note:** Thank you for your support! Not as many clues in this section, BUT this story is more about the journey than the destination (or answers, as it were.) Anyway, this chapter killed me dead. Seriously.

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p><em>"You ever hesitate again, because you second guessed yourself, I'll take your badge."<em>  
>- Gibbs, "Probie"<p>

* * *

><p>Chapter Eight<p>

Ziva pulled her small car into McGee's cramped driveway. She'd driven like a sane person, for once, saving her partner's head from cracking into the window several times. She glanced his way, seeing how he sat bonelessly in the passenger seat, wrapped up in his tan trench coat. He wasn't making any effort to appear in the least bit animate; it was like he was in a trance. Ziva switched off the engine and stared at the condo's front gate, and the tiny courtyard beyond it. It was neat as a pin, predictably. Tim was as anal-retentive as one might guess. And despite the long hours he worked each week, he obviously spent time keeping things presentable.

Perhaps this was McGee's boat in the basement. Just like movies (_films_), sex and alcohol were to Tony. And how an actual boat was to Gibbs. Then again, Gibbs has inspired the whole "boat in the basement" analogy, so it didn't really bear repeating.

McGee moved here from his old place about two years ago. It was a little further out and a lot more expensive, but it afforded him a postage stamp yard complete with actual grass. There was a river walk four blocks away and acres of green space and mature trees and park benches. There were more couples than there were singles. More coffee shops than nightclubs. More fresh air than DC smog.

He wouldn't admit to as much, but he'd done it for the dog. Poor Jethro had felt cramped in the old place, and so had McGee. But now, in the new place where the dog had a yard and even his own bedroom and automatic water fountain, McGee budgeted for a sitter to come twice a day so the old dog could stretch his legs in the park.

Jethro the German shepherd was not spoiled in the least bit… Ziva had found herself laughing at all this. All of this for a _dog. _"You Americans," she had commented in disbelief.

And of course it was Tony who had countered with: "Look who's talking, Zee-vah."

Ziva was already slamming the car door shut. "Come on, McGee," she urged, suddenly impatient. "I am afraid to face your dog alone."

McGee - with fumbling hands - unlocked the door without a word, and Ziva became his shadow, until he kicked her out with a weary sigh and a mumbling "I'm fine." He urged her to keep the lights off and the blinds drawn. Jethro laid quietly on the Pergo floor, brown eyes blinking occasionally, watching.

With some hesitation, Ziva left him on the couch, curled on his side and staring at some infomercial or another playing across the muted television. She was chewing on her lip, on the brink of staying and leaving. "Tim-" she started.

"Just go," he demanded, although it sounded weak from his post on the couch. McGee didn't look at her. He simply resumed staring at the TV. His eyes, now suspiciously wet, watched a steam cleaner remove a stain from a carpet. "Just leave me alone, please."

* * *

><p>Gibbs wondered what kind of sick luck he had. No matter what situations he found himself in, he came out alive. Not always whole, but alive and kicking and ready for some reckoning. How many times had he stared danger in the face, <em>glared<em> at it, and won? Explosions, gunshots, car crashes, crazy people, snipers. These things took friends and family and coworkers, but never Gibbs himself.

What kind of sick luck. Plain, sick luck - who got dead and who got not dead. And Gibbs, still feeling the ever-present flame of anger licking at his gut, gladly made way for emptiness and a weird, creeping feeling of ambivalence.

Ever since that morning - nearly twelve hours that crawled by like a slug worm - Gibbs was expected to resume his role on his personal pedestal. He was expected to be in control.

Everybody looked at him for direction. Everybody needed his guidance in one way or the other. Everybody needed kind words. They needed support. They needed closure. They needed to cry into his shirt. They needed they needed they needed. And everything would be _okay_ because Gibbs said so.

They were all wrong. Dead wrong.

Gibbs wanted them to _back off_. He was nobody's savior. Nobody's hero. He was _trying_, damnit, but he'd much rather shut everybody out.

At the bottom of it all, he really wanted to throttle DiNozzo. And if he could take McGee's place he would. Maybe it would have turned out differently, or maybe it wouldn't have.

* * *

><p><em>Last Night<em>

"Congratulations, _Special _Agent DiNozzo. You've just won Idiot Snoop of the Year."

The voice was low and grating - like tires rolling over gravel - and it was accompanied by the business end of a pistol. It was pointed directly at his face in a way that made him want to flinch. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been on this end before, but his breath still caught in his chest.

"Who are you?" Tony asked.

"Disappointing. I thought you would have checked that out before showing up here," the voice replied. "All alone."

"Yeah? Well, actually I'm _not_ alone," Tony rebuffed. He almost took a brash step forward.

The pistol's barrel shoved closer to his face, so close that he could feel it brush against the underside of his chin. "Liar."

* * *

><p>Abigail Sciuto sat in the dark, back pressed against the hard, unforgiving wall. Around her, the lab was humming softly, the dark shapes of the equipment looming above her. The only light came from the monitor screens. No data ran across them.<p>

There was nothing happening in here. Nothing at all. Just Abby, still pressed against the wall, hands loosely wrapped around a stuffed hippo. Her fingers moved slowly through its worn plush fur. Mascara laced tears had dried to her cheeks, making her face feel stiff and flushed. She stared at her feet.

Distantly, she heard the glass door sliding open. Her fingers stilled, but she did not look up. Abby could tell who it was simply by the sound of the footsteps.

Two shoes stopped just short of her own.

"You don't have to tell me, Gibbs," she said, voice so quiet that it was almost lost in the hum of the surrounding lab. And then even quieter, "Ducky told me, even though you should have, hours ago."

"I know Abs-" Gibbs started, only to be cut off.

"Don't tell me to go home," she pleaded, still not looking at him, "I can't go home."

Gibbs paused. The shoes didn't move. "Nothin' for you to do here, Abs. Everybody got sent home. Ziva, too, and… McGee." There was a weird hesitancy before Tim was mentioned.

"Tony's not going home." Her fingers started moving again over the plush stuffed animal.

There was no answer to that.

Instead she asked, "Where were you? Where were you, Gibbs?"

* * *

><p>He almost expected it to be disconnected. But it rang and it rang, and finally he connected with the voicemail box. Tim's mouth went dry when he heard the familiar recording.<p>

"Hi! You've reached Tony DiNozzo. Can't answer the phone right now, so leave a message. Or something."

Then it beeped, and Tim almost choked on his own tongue.

"Uh," he coughed. "Hey Tony. It's McGee." That came out so easily and so familiarly, it was almost surreal. Nervously, he laughed.

"I'm, uh. I'm just sitting here. At home." Tim let a pause grow after that. And then he licked his lips and went on, "I know that it was you who stole my burrito card, Tony. Sure, you bought half of those burritos, but you didn't care about getting that damn thing stamped. The burrito guy always gave me two stamps because you never asked for one. I know you know that he did. You always "forgot" your card. But I know you were just waiting until mine got full, and finally I was going to get a free burrito. So you took it. That's just like you, DiNozzo. You're always going through my stuff. That was my damn free burrito. You owe me-" Tim stopped.

During his rant, he'd stood up from the couch and paced the length of the living room. His voice had gotten louder and louder, causing Jethro to raise his head from the floor. Tim looked at the dog, and then sank back to the couch. Still clutching the phone to his ear, he rubbed at his eyes while sniffing back loose snot. "I guess you can have it, Tony. I'll start another one. It's- It's no big deal. Really. It's not."

His voice cracked. "You won't, uh- You won't get this message, Tony. But I just wanted to say… I screwed up. Back when I shot- when I shot that cop, Gibbs told me to never hesitate. But he was wrong, because this time... this time I _should_ have hesitated. I'm-" Tim swallowed and closed his eyes. "Jesus. It was _you_. What the hell were you _doing_?" He pulled the phone away from his face, enough so that he could run a sleeve over his face yet again. "I'm sorry, Tony. I'm so _fucking_ sorry. I messed up. I'm going-"

An automated woman's voice cut him off suddenly. "I'm sorry. Press 7 if you'd like to hear your recording. Press 8 if you'd like to start over."

Tim sat there and said nothing, tears clinging to his lashes. He almost laughed in anguish. It repeated, "I'm sorry. Press 7 if you'd like-" He pressed disconnect.

When he opened his eyes, the big German shepherd's head was in his face, brown eyes white-rimmed and kind. His black nose leather pushed close, warm and damp, and he gently licked his master's face. Tim dropped the phone onto the cushions and dug his hands into the animal's thick neck fur. Jethro smelled like dog, but it was welcome and familiar. His soft pants warmed Tim's neck, and he didn't move to pull away when Tim rested his forehead against the shepherd's soft muzzle. "I'm gonna miss you," he whispered, finishing the foolish voicemail message.

Jethro whined and gave Tim his paw, as he was accustomed to doing. Tim held the rough pads in his hand for a bit before letting it go. Toeing his shoes off, he scooted his whole body on the couch. He wanted to take a nap, and he wanted it to last for days, weeks, or even months.

In silent support, the dog lied down on the bit of floor between the couch and the coffee table. He gave one mighty sigh and closed his eyes.

They fell asleep to the gentle ticking of the kitchen clock.

* * *

><p>"Is it true?" Abby suddenly asked Gibbs, still in the quiet of her lab. Her breath hitched at the end of the question.<p>

The shoes suddenly moved as Gibbs came closer, turning to sit beside her against the wall. His movements were a bit slow; his knees cracked as he crouched down. "Is what true?"

She still didn't make any effort to look Gibbs in the eye. "Is it true that Timmy shot him?"

"Yeah," he answered honestly. "Yeah, he did, Abs." Gibbs looked over, attempting to study her face half-hidden in shadows. The fact that she was so still and so quiet had him worried.

Abby and Tony had a bond that not even the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs quite understood. She did not even know where to begin. He was her friend, her brother, her protector. It just felt like there was a _hole_, a vacant space that would never be occupied again. "Took two slugs in the chest," she murmured mostly to herself. She could almost feel Gibbs frowning next to her.

"Did Duck tell-"

"No. There were pictures. I knew I shouldn't have," Abby was clutching the hippo tightly now. So tightly that her fingers sunk into it and the tendons in her hands became taught. "I just thought-" Something caught in her chest. She heaved breaths in and out. "I just thought that if I _saw_, then-" Abby drew her knees up close to her chin, the stuffed animal falling away forgotten. "If I saw, then I would know that it's real." Her fingers now wrapped around her ankles, knuckles white. "It's real, Gibbs. And, oh god, he-" Abby choked on a breath.

Gibbs suddenly leaned over, his right arm reaching around her shoulders, bringing her closer to him.

"He- his chest. _God_, Gibbs." Fresh tears were leaking down her face. Her shoulders hitched. "I don't want to remember him like that," she whispered.

In a rare show of physical support, Gibbs had pressed his forehead to the crown of her head. "Then don't," he instructed.

She felt his words vibrate against her, but it was difficult to take them to heart. Especially with that visual - the last she might have of Tony - branding itself into her memory. "It's real," Abby repeated. It was definitely real. The two holes in his chest. The blood. The empty eyes. The frown, frozen in death. The way his body rested unnaturally. "I was going to tell him something today," she said shakily. "I was going to tell him that the Kojak box set was 50% off at Barnes and Noble." Abby almost laughed.

Gibbs merely hummed in reply.

"Did he have to, Gibbs?" She asked the question so quietly that he almost didn't hear.

He stared blankly into the dark. "I would have done the same thing."


	11. Chapter Nine

**Author's Note: **Paranoia sets in.

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p><em>"They give me a shot and a handful of pills to swallow.<br>I stare at the thin red wall of my inner eyelid and listen to my skin,  
>and I can't be sure how the medication is affecting me.<br>I can't remember how I'm supposed to feel.  
>I can't remember my name.<br>I have never seen my face."_

_- "Kiss Me, Judas"  
><em>

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Nine<span>

* * *

><p>Three days before the mess in the director's office, Tim grudgingly agreed to lunch with Tony. It wasn't that he didn't <em>want<em> to have lunch with Tony- Well, maybe that was halfway true. The man could be an ass even at the best of times. But no, it _wasn't_ that he didn't want to have lunch with him. After all, Tim did have to eat, eventually, and he wasn't particularly keen on eating alone. But he had been _busy_, darn it, and the last he needed was to lose an hour-

As soon as the two of them walked outside, the stress seemed to vanish.

"See?" Tony jabbed at him with a sidelong, _I-told-you-so_ glance. "You were getting that look in your eye up there. McGeekVision."

The Washington Navy Yard was a sprawling place, all of it fenced in by security check posts and razor wire, uniformed personnel moving around like automatons on a mission. Busy, always busy. It wasn't really a place to enjoy a nice spring day, so they took Tony's car downtown and found a claustrophobic parallel parking spot between an F250 truck and a VW Eurovan. Tony didn't have enough cents to feed the meter; Tim did.

They set off along a tree-lined promenade, walking side by side in the filtered sunlight. The trees were beginning to bud, and the grass had already turned pre-maturely green. There were squirrels and bunnies and fat robins pecking at the dirt. Tim took a deep breath of fresh air. It was unusually warm for this time of year. Sunny, too, with a light breeze. At half past two, the business lunch crowd had dwindled, leaving tourists, students, and wandering locals to ply the streets in their wake.

Tony was yammering on about something or another while they somehow chose a food cart without any discussion about it. Well, Tony chose, and Tim settled with no complaints.

"You know, I read this book recently," Tony started talking while simultaneously shoving rice into his mouth. "It was about this guy - an ex-cop gone kooky - who wakes up in a motel room ice-bath." A few grains of rice fell out of his mouth as he swallowed and stabbed at a shrimp with the cheap plastic fork.

Tim watched his friend with poorly veiled amusement. As he listened, he picked out all the peas and moved them to the side of the plate.

"What?" Tony looked up from his food.

"You read a book," Tim replied innocently.

"I bought it from a used bookstore-"

Tim attempted to hide his mocking smile. He knew for a fact that bookstores and libraries were probably the last places Tony would choose to spend time at. "You went to a used bookstore."

"Okay, McGee. There was a girl, and she turned out to be a real book nerd." Tony chewed slowly on a shrimp. "I didn't see that one coming. Anyway, we went to a used bookstore. Huge place full of old, smelly books-"

"That's generally the idea," Tim poked with a smirk.

"-I think we spent a lifetime in there, and she ended up with no less than twenty paperbacks. I'm not kidding. I was poking around the fifty-cent table, I see this book, and I say why not. If I'm going to be locked up all day in a dusty tomb of moldy paper and intellect, I might as well entertain myself. Right?"

The smirk had slid off Tim's face, and now he appeared genuinely interested in Tony's uncharacteristic used bookstore date. It was a first on many counts. The first time Tim voluntarily cared to hear about one of Tony's dates. And the first time Tony had ever dared to venture outside his well-worn zone of comfort.

"Anyway, I buy this book, and we go home. Pop open a bottle of vino, have a few glasses. And then we started _reading._" Tony looked moderately disturbed by this revelation. "Maybe I'm getting old. I mean, we sat there and _read_. And I didn't want to stop because about an eighth of the way in, I was hooked. Not even when she put her book down and crawled onto my lap."

Tim almost choked on a half-masticated shrimp. He would have a laugh sharing this little story with Ziva later. Then again, Tony was being unusually transparent. It almost felt like this was some kind of secret, and that made Tim balk at his earlier thought. Tony was an asshole ninety-five percent of the time, but that wasn't a license for cruelty.

"So this guy wakes up in an ice-bath, and he's missing a kidney," Tony continued.

"Sounds like that urban legend," Tim chewed thoughtfully. "You know, hooker steals kidney."

"Exactly," Tony enthused, "But then it spirals into this guy's quest to find his kidney and the prostitute slash surgeon gets him hooked on heroin and he's _certifiable _and he may or may not have shot his wife in the face."

Tim had stopped eating; he blinked at his friend.

"It was a good book," Tony reasoned with a shrug. "I mean, don't get me wrong, your book was pretty good too, Timmy." He smirked. "But yours didn't have any hookers stealing kidneys."

"No," Tim had to admit, "No, it didn't."

The two of them ate in companionable silence, until Tony suddenly said, "Maybe in your next book, huh?" Tony dug in his coat pocket for the Ibuprofen bottle. He tapped two tablets into his hand and chased them down with a mouthful of Dasani. He gingerly got to his feet.

Tim was watching him surreptitiously.

"Got a headache," Tony offered.

"Been getting lots of headaches lately?" Tim asked innocently.

Tony grinned. "Yeah, I call it Probie-itis."

Tim huffed. "So what's her name?"

"Whose name?"

"Your girlfriend," Tim clarified. "The book nerd."

Tony simply smiled and chuckled. He gathered up his coat.

They both threw out their trash and started along the path back towards the car.

"Hey, have you been talking to Director Vance lately?" Tony suddenly asked.

"Uh, no. Not really," Tim answered with a curious look. "Why?"

Tony didn't provide an answer; he just kept walking, looking around at the surrounding people, back stiff and tense. "You know I look out for you, right, McGee?"

Tim frowned. "Uh, yeah? Of course you do."

"Okay. Good." Tony unlocked the door. They both got in.

As soon as both of the doors were shut, Tony abruptly turned towards his partner. "Tim. I need you to stay away from the Director."

Tony was looking so vehement all of a sudden, that Tim had pressed his back against the passenger side door. It was a complete shift from the calm, companionable version of Tony he had just been having lunch with. "Uh," Tim sputtered. "Tony?"

"Stay away from him. Do not talk to him. Just… stay away." Tony's hands gripped the wheel, and he was nervously checking the rear-view mirror. They were still parked on the street. Tony suddenly put the vehicle into gear and edged out of their spot.

Tim went out on a limb, back still pressed against the hard plastic door handle. "What's going on?"

"Stop asking questions," Tony snapped. "Just do what I tell you."

But Probie wasn't quite a probie anymore. Tim set his jaw and asked again, "Tell me what's going on."

"I just got a feeling. Don't know what it is," came Tony's short reply.

Tim decided to let it lie. For the entire ride back to NCIS headquarters, he sat tensely in his seat, staring straight out of the window, only sparing the occasional glance at Tony.

Two days later, Tim received an email from Director Vance.

And a day after that, Tony was dead, and the Director was in the hospital.

Tim hadn't touched the email.

* * *

><p>"I was wrong," Dr. Ryan spoke past the highball glass that hovered near her lips. After her enlightening conversation with Vance, she had finally gotten in touch with DiNozzo. "You're not a game show host. Not exactly." She took a sip, swallowed slowly, and fixed him with a look that could peel an onion.<p>

Tony didn't move from where he sat. He fingered his own glass still situated on the cocktail napkin. He waited. The hotel bar they sat in was dark and quiet, just a few other people and a jazz piano.

"You're an _actor _for sure," Dr. Ryan finally concluded. She took a larger sip and then put the glass down. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the tops of her knees. Narrowing her eyes, she studied him closer than she had in the past. There was something about this agent, something intelligent and cunning and guarded. Admittedly, it had surprised her; it sent her for a brief whirl before she ultimately backtracked and re-evaluated her approach. For some perverse reason, she liked it.

Gibbs kept DiNozzo around for a reason, and it certainly wasn't for comedic relief. Maybe this was why. It was the man's unwelcome curiosity and his propensity to snoop around for the things others feared to uncover.

So yes, Dr. Ryan decided that she _liked_ that, but she also decided that she didn't like DiNozzo. Not at all.

Tony didn't open his mouth to deny her assessment. His thumb moved slowly over the seam of his jeans. Suddenly, he smiled, ironically exactly like a game show host.

"Back off, Agent DiNozzo," Dr. Ryan all but growled. A moment passed, and then she leaned away, taking on a look that was a bit softer and a little less like a jungle predator. "Your snooping around is unwarranted."

"Is it?" Tony questioned, "Because some things smell a little hinky…"

"You don't want to go any further," she warned, expression hardening once more. DiNozzo was stubborn and he was game, but more than that, he was loyal.

Loyal to a fault.

Dr. Ryan soothed, "Trust me, Tony."

"I can't back off," Tony shot back. "And I won't. Something's going on."

Trust issues. That was something he had in common with Gibbs. Actually, it was something in common with all three of them. It was a big happy family of doubt and suspicion. But unfortunately for Dr. Ryan, she was the odd member out. Sure, she had Gibbs' attentions, but that was a fickle success. All it would take was some DiNozzo-style blabbing, and the jib would be up. Gibbs would take Tony's word over hers any day.

Dr. Ryan had time to figure something out. Luckily, Tony was smart, so he would probably wait until he had _proof_ of_ something_. And then there was the fact that she hadn't wanted any part of this business in the first place. Despite her better judgment, she liked Gibbs. She liked him a lot.

Tony was already forging ahead. Like the flip of a switch, the agent's paranoia fueled agitation ratcheted up several notches. "You stay away," he demanded harshly. He was no longer quite as smiley as he had been just minutes before. "Stay away from Gibbs. Stay away from McGee. Stay away from all of them."

Dr. Ryan frowned at the mention of McGee. Her body tensed, fearing the feral look that had taken up residence in the man's hazel eyes. "Exactly how much do you know, Tony?"

Tony gave the question an indirect answer, and then some. "Enough to know the game you're playing, Ryan. And I don't like it."

"I wasn't really looking for your opinion."

"You aren't going to read Gibbs into it, are you?" Tony suddenly asked. "You are going to suck McGee into it, under the radar or whatever. Some Black Ops bullshit."

"Not me-" Dr. Ryan protested, gripping the highball glass and attempting to keep herself from swigging the entire thing in one gulp. Nervous habit, perhaps.

"Okay. Maybe not _you_." Tony reasoned. "Vance."

She gave him a sour look. "Vance is hardly calling the shots."

Tony narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward. "Then who is?"

Dr. Ryan paused. Her job was to chase DiNozzo off, not answer more of his questions. "Director Vance is going to offer Agent McGee a unique opportunity. I can't tell you anything else." She then considered something. "Unless you're jealous?"

"Been there, done that," Tony ground out.

She assessed him, and suddenly she realized what he was alluding to. Tony had indeed been there and done that. She'd read into the files. After all, if she was going to be working with Gibbs, she wanted to know his people. From the looks of it, somebody was still smarting, and that same somebody also had a long and implacable memory.

"Suicide mission," Tony growled.

"It's nothing so dramatic," she practically whispered. Giving the hotel lobby they were sitting in a glance, she looked back at Tony. "Just some technology things. Hacking, et cetera."

"Fine. Career suicide mission. I'm not letting McGee make the same mistakes I did."

"But look at you. You're fine."

"Yeah I'm _fine._" If it was possible, Tony was looking even more pissed off and agitated.

Dr. Ryan stared at his hands. They were shaking. "You should calm down. You're going to give yourself a heart attack."

"I will calm down when I damn well feel like it," Tony all but snarled. "So you can go tell Vance to find somebody else!" Tony was suddenly standing and leaning over Dr. Ryan.

She sat still and stared up at him. She tried not to move, wondering somehow if that would set him off. "Tony," she gently placated him. She was changing tactics. A few other people sitting nearby were watching them with wary eyes. "I'm not the enemy here."

He was reading her face, his eyes boring into hers. He breathed hard, hands still shaking. Suddenly, he pulled away and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

Dr. Ryan didn't resume normal breathing until DiNozzo was pushing through the revolving door.


	12. Chapter Ten

__**Author's Note:** The beginning of this chapter was taken from a section in Chapter Eight. We continue that scene here. Also, Vance! Thank you everybody for your reviews and thoughts.

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p><em>"Sometimes rain that's needed falls."<br>_

* * *

><p><em><em>Chapter Ten

_"Congratulations, **Special** Agent DiNozzo. You've just won Idiot Snoop of the Year."_

_The voice was low and grating - like tires rolling over gravel - and it was accompanied by the business end of a pistol. It was pointed directly at his face in a way that made him want to flinch. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been on this end before, but his breath still caught in his chest._

_"Who are you?" Tony asked._

_"Disappointing. I thought you would have checked that out before showing up here," the voice replied. "All alone."_

_"Yeah? Well, actually I'm **not** alone," Tony rebuffed. He almost took a brash step forward._

_The pistol's barrel shoved closer to his face, so close that he could feel it brush against the underside of his chin. "Liar."_

In fact, Tony _was_ a liar because he was very much alone right now. A weird and desperate feeling had driven him here, to this same spot. He felt like he had to do something, take care of something. His mind buzzed with a sense of urgency. The feeling made him itch all over, made him restless with energy. His thoughts looped around and around.

While the soft skin of his throat warmed the ice cold muzzle of the gun, the only thing Tony thought to do was grit his teeth and glare. He swallowed convulsively and attempted to slow his rapidly beating heart. It was no use, however. The blood pulsed in his ears, almost deafening him.

"Who are you?" Tony asked again.

"More important," the voice growled, "is who do you think _you_ are?"

Tony said nothing.

"Who do you think you're protecting, Special Agent DiNozzo? Your teammates or yourself?"

The pistol suddenly jammed harder into Tony's throat, and he gagged and reeled backwards to free himself from the uncomfortable pressure.

"Oh no you don't," the voice went on. Tony felt strong hands grab the front of his shirt. He felt his body spinning around. Felt as his whole body made firm contact with a brick wall. "I am your worst fucking nightmare."

Tony saw the man now, but still didn't recognize him. His body fought back before his brain was even able to process what was going on. He evaded a knee meant to slam into his groin. Twisting his body, Tony grasped at the gun with both of his hands, trying to push it away from his neck. They struggled for what seemed like hours, both shoving and yanking and grappling.

"We'll get to them, DiNozzo, whether you like it or not," the other man grunted. The only effect that had on Tony was to refuel the rapidly growing fire that was already consuming his chest. His brain was screaming at him.

Finally the stranger seemed to have enough. With a heave, he thrust Tony against the corner of a metal city dumpster. He barely even felt it as his face made contact with the immovable object. Exhausted and dazed, Tony let his body sink to the concrete, half upright and listing drunkenly.

"You stay away, DiNozzo. Keep your damn nose to yourself. I went easy on you _this time_."

Tony blinked before realizing that five minutes had passed, and the man was long gone. He reached a shaking hand up to poke at his face. He was remarkably unscathed, with the exception of a torn lip. Tony explored the cut with the tip of his tongue.

Gingerly getting to his feet, Tony limped to where he might have left his car. He kept looking over his shoulder. He ran his fingers over his temples; his head was still as fuzzy as it had been during the random altercation.

"_What the fuck is wrong with me_?" he gasped as he stuffed himself unceremoniously into his car. Tony practically ripped down the visor so that he could look at his face in the mirror. Surprisingly enough, there was only a faint outline of a bruise starting on his cheek. He punched the visor back into the upright position and groaned into his cupped hands.

He didn't know who that man was. Didn't even know what had spurred him into seeking out whoever it was. He just knew things were going pear-shaped. He was _certain_ of it.

Tony had never felt this paranoid before.

That night, the night before the shooting, he'd driven to Ziva's place. He woke her up, ate her proffered cheesecake, and even though he wanted to, he told her nothing.

* * *

><p>The first time Gibbs visited Leon Vance in the hospital, he'd done so in a numb daze.<p>

He'd woken up that morning, choked down a few cups of stale coffee, dressed in his work clothes and made sure he had his cell phone, gun, and badge. He'd gotten in his agency-issued vehicle, bought $45 worth of fuel at the gas station, but instead of exiting off the interstate and heading towards the Navy Yard, he steered the car towards the hospital.

Gibbs knew that - officially - speaking with Leon was a first-class "bad idea." But Gibbs was often in the opinion that the worst "bad ideas" were some of the best. He knew that if Agent Thomas and the rest of his FBI lackeys caught wind that he was doing his own reconnaissance, then Gibbs would have to face the consequences.

He didn't particularly care. If he sat and did nothing, he'd have to face himself. He'd have to face the constant stream of questions from his team. The why's, the how's, the who's, and the what's. He'd have to face the reality of whatever was left of DiNozzo - his guilt or his innocence or a combination of both.

The media had already managed to find dirt on Tony, whether it was because of a leak within the agency or otherwise, Gibbs had no clue. They'd somehow gotten a hold of all the details, from Peoria to Philadelphia to Baltimore to NCIS. From college even. And they'd ripped it all to shreds, dragging miscellaneous facts from the detritus and pasting them into sordid news pieces. With a wide brush, they'd painted DiNozzo as a troubled agent with discipline issues - a compulsive loose cannon with a penchant for reckless bad judgment. Almost too many adjectives for Gibbs to comprehend.

It should have enraged Gibbs, but he couldn't find the passion for it. He should have gone after these people with everything he had - Abby thought so, Ziva thought so, even Fornell thought so. But he didn't. He watched; every headline brought about more of the same numbness. Gibbs often wondered what was wrong with him, if something had finally broken inside of him. He wondered sometimes - while he was feigning sleep or while he was getting drunk on bourbon and whittling away a piece of wood - if there was such a thing as emotional bankruptcy.

DiNozzo's death was one thing, but watching as strangers ripped apart his integrity like buzzards, letting his entrails rot in the public eye - _that_ was the final nail.

He found Leon's room without any help. The door was partially open, and he could hear the TV murmuring softly in the background. Gibbs paused in front of the door, leaving himself room for second thoughts. But after a few moments, he shook his head and pushed the heavy door inwards.

The man propped up in the hospital bed was asleep. A leg and an arm were encased in green casts. His other arm was heavily bandaged. Painkillers dripped steadily into the IV attached to the un-casted arm. Leon Vance looked like a wreck, sallow and drawn in a way that aged the man at least a decade. No toothpick, either. Gibbs let out a small breath as he assessed the small room. A few flowers, cards, and balloons occupied the corner. A child's backpack was tucked into the corner. The window looked out over the leafy residential side streets.

Gibbs rapped on the door, hoping that was enough to rouse Leon.

"Thought you'd find me sooner rather than later," the injured man suddenly spoke. He hadn't bothered to open his eyes or raise his head.

Gibbs took a few steps forward. "Got a lot of questions, Leon," he murmured with a grim frown. When Leon continued to lie there in an insensate state, Gibbs spoke louder. "And you're gonna answer them."

Finally Leon looked at Gibbs, wincing at the daylight. His eyes were dull and glazed, more than likely from the constant stream of painkillers flowing through his veins. "In case you hadn't noticed, Gibbs, I got shot at least four times by a crazed agent from my own agency. I've also been informed that NCIS is off this case. FBI's ball now."

"I'm aware," Gibbs spoke with an air of eerie calmness.

"Then why are you here trying to interrogate me?" The man on the bed moved to sit up a little straighter, but he winced and fell back. "Damnit," he swore.

"Don't have to move, Leon. Just have to talk."

"And I have nothing to say."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. "No?"

"No," Leon ground out. His face was twitching in discomfort, but it seemed like the pain was a bit more than simply physical.

Gibbs was blunt: "Tony's dead."

Leon seemed to deflate even more than he already was. He closed his eyes and let out a long, controlled breath. His fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach up and rub his temples. "I know," the man finally answered, voice deadpan. "They told me." When he opened his eyes again, he glanced downwards at Gibbs' badge, at the black band stretched across the middle. That certainly wasn't an agency initiated mourning band, not with the controversy surrounding Tony's death.

"What happened in your office?" Gibbs started.

Leon swallowed. "DiNozzo shot me, Gibbs. I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to say. He was a good agent, but-"

"But?"

"Lately, he was becoming erratic, unpredictable. Don't tell me you didn't notice it, Gibbs. He was your agent."

"I did," Gibbs nodded honestly. "That's why I benched him. He was getting overwhelmed. Needed a breather to get his head on straight."

"Well, it seems that his idle mind became the devil's playground," Leon stated bitterly. He looked down at his ruined limbs. It was going to be months before he was marginally functional again.

"What was going on?" Gibbs pried

Leon shook his head, his lips sealed. He studied the off-white sheets, methodically catalogued the creases.

"I need to understand." That was as close to pleading as Leroy Jethro Gibbs would ever get.

"I can't tell you anything," the director answered quickly. "You're not need-to-know."

"The hell I'm not need-to-know, Leon!" Gibbs suddenly roared. It was the most emotion he'd shown in days. And now it was bleeding off of him in waves, like a volcanic explosion. "_My agent_ is dead. Tony is dead. Shot by my _other_ agent, for Christ's sake. And I can't make head or tail of what the _hell_ was going on under my own damn nose. You tell me, Leon! You tell me why you were demoting DiNozzo without first coming to me!"

Leon bristled at Gibbs' rage, and even while laid out on a hospital bed, he made a good show of his own. "Because he _deserved_ the demotion! He was out-of-line!"

"Somehow I don't believe that!"

"Believe what you want, Special Agent Gibbs, but that DiNozzo had it coming."

"_What?_" Gibbs roared, practically frothing at this point. "He _deserved_ to be shot to death by his own partner's gun?"

"That's not what I meant," Leon growled before launching into a firmly articulated explanation of events. Or at least the Cliff Notes version. "When DiNozzo came into my office, he was acting like he was god damned nuts. Kept pacing around and mumbling. He was jumpy and paranoid. I should have called security right away, but I thought 'no.' No, he was fine. Just got something stuck in his craw - probably one of your damn bones, Gibbs. I explained what I was doing, that he was no longer going to be senior field agent on your team effective immediately. Then, I reached down for something, and that set him off completely."

"And you ordered McGee to shoot DiNozzo?" Gibbs anger had boiled down to a simmer, but he was still standing stiffly, as if the smallest statement - like a fatty steak on a grill - could make it flare up again.

"He was the first person to show up." Leon swallowed thickly. "I thought I was going to die. I thought about my wife and my children. About how I was never going to be able to watch Kayla's piano recital or help Jared with his homework that night. About how I was never going to kiss my wife 'hello' again. About how, the night before, Jackie and I'd gotten in a fight, and my last words to her would have been 'I don't care.'"

Gibbs stood still and stared, for the most part unmoved.

"Look, Gibbs, I'm sorry about what happened to your boy. And to McGee."

"Not sorry enough to read me in on whatever dog and pony show you all have running," Gibbs stated in reply.

Leon's expression hardened. "Do you think there's a moment I don't lay here and _agonize_ over what happened in that office? Do you think I don't replay those seconds and wonder what I could have done differently?"

"No, I believe you," Gibbs gave the director that much. "But I know there's more." He gave Leon's bullet battered body one more look before he stepped away. "Rest up, Leon. You got a lot of holes to fill."


	13. Chapter Eleven

**Author's Note: **I wanted to post this ASAP. My shift is on this weekend. Nights, as usual. Anyway, this girl... Jenelle... she is the one Tony mentioned to Tim during their lunch. I apologize in advance for any typos. Or confusion. I love to jump around. Obviously in my mind, time does not occur in a linear fashion.

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p><em>"I came here with a load<br>And it feels so much lighter now I met you_"- "Green Eyes" Coldplay

* * *

><p>Chapter Eleven<p>

Ziva spent nights alone in her apartment leafing through the copies of Tony's notepad. She felt vaguely voyeuristic doing so, but she knew something could be in it. Something, anything! Her partner's writing was sloppy, almost completely unreadable, but Ziva had the advantage of knowing the man and his handwriting almost as well as she knew her own. She didn't envy the Feebies. They must be ripping out their already-thinning hair trying to de-code this mess of random phrases, names, grocery lists, reminders, phone numbers, and juvenile doodles.

She rubbed at her aching eyes and leaned heavily against her kitchen table. She adroitly avoided the sticky coffee stain; this past week, she seemed to have pushed cleaning to the bottom of her own to-do list. God, she just wanted to _sleep_ for days and days. She knew, however, that as soon as she flung herself on her bed, the insomnia would return. As it always did.

At least this task kept her mind off of _other_ things. Like how Tony's skin felt after she realized he was already dead, still warm and slightly clammy from sweat. Or how closure of any kind seemed nowhere in sight. No funeral yet, no memorial, no anything.

Gibbs had been the one to personally call Tony's father. Ziva did not envy that task. There was no wailing or gnashing of teeth - just cold shock. The man still hadn't come into town. "Do what you think is right," he'd said, voice faraway - both physically and emotionally. Tony didn't have much of anybody else, in terms of blood and in-law family. Just a few cousins in England, a batty great-aunt in Bridgeport, one maybe two ex-stepmothers.

Ziva knew it all was excruciating for Gibbs. He had been thrust into an awkward position, and he clearly conveyed his discomfort. She knew that he'd found Tony's will, amongst the other crap in his messy apartment. It was wedged at the bottom of a drawer. Tony had wanted to be cremated, and Gibbs wasn't about the protest that or anything else. He wasn't ever expecting to make the decision of what to do with his friend's dead body.

Gibbs carried his ice-cold grief around like it was an elephant, kept it at arm's length, refusing the truly feel it. It inhabited every room he occupied, followed him everywhere. Ziva was not so blind and unfeeling that she did not notice.

Not like McGee lately, who was a shell. Vacant and desolate.

The whole team was in suspended animation, and the agency in general seemed to switch from open shock to guarded denial, sometimes exhibiting both simultaneously. Tony's non-team coworkers seemed to want to do him right, asked when they could pay their respects - but then they had faded away, as if they were being puppeteered by some impervious force. Ziva couldn't bring herself to blame them. She knew without any doubt that her friend was a good man, but nobody - not even her - knew why things had happened like they did up in that office.

And now she was beginning to think that nobody ever would. Sometimes that was just how things worked out. Vance may be alive and talking, but Tony never would be. It was what it was.

With a wheezing sigh, Ziva flipped to the next page of the notepad. Here there was something different, and her brows drew themselves together. There was a phone number and a smiley face. It wasn't Tony's handwriting. She glanced at the clock in an attempt to check if it was too late for a phone call.

* * *

><p>Her name was Jenelle, and to Anthony DiNozzo, she was something else entirely. Humble and smart as a whip, she loved books and nature and dogs, and didn't like make-up. She had curly brown hair and dark, dark eyes. She was shy yet mischievous, always had a wry smile on her face.<p>

They'd met at a coffee shop, randomly. And from there, somehow, they had connected.

"You done with that book yet, Tony?"

Tony looked up from the pages and smiled softly at Jenelle who was lying across the bed. He replied while shaking the book, its jacket crinkled and flapping, "You know this was your fault."

She tilted her head and smirked. "I never did take you for a reader, Mr. Man of Action."

"Your assumption was correct." He looked back at the book before finally marking the page and setting it on the nightstand. "So?" Tony leaned back in the chair.

"So…" She flung her dark hair over her shoulder as she rested her head on the pillow. She kept one brown eye on him, smile still curving her lips. "I think I like you," she whispered.

They looked at each other for a good long minute. It was a comfortable, companionable silence.

"Yeah?" Tony asked.

"I had a husband," Jenelle suddenly blurted before looking away towards the ceiling. Her gaze followed the fan as it turned around and around lazily.

Tony watched her carefully. This was new. She hadn't shared this with him yet. They didn't know each other that well yet, and Jenelle was always a little guarded. She was a prudent woman. Enigmatic, but not in a way meant to deceive.

Now she was nervous, fidgeting where she lay, as if she was afraid she would be judged.

"His name was Daniel and we met in high school. Fell in love. Got married. He was a Marine. Went three times - Iraq, Afghanistan, God knows where. He sent me letters every so often. Said the job was tough, but he loved the people." Jenelle smiled at the ceiling. "That's the kind of man he was. I got the news while I was folding laundry. Can you believe that? One moment I was sorting socks, and the next my world was crashing down around my ears. I knew what had happened before they even opened their mouths." Jenelle turned her head to look at him, brown eyes dark and moist. "Do you know what it feels like?" she asked.

Tony didn't answer. He just kept his eyes on hers.

"I'd never been with anybody else. He was special - and he thought I was special. I moved here hoping for something different. I didn't know anybody. Just saved some money, loaded a U-Haul, and left my family, my job, my dog, my _life_. Because without him, _none of it was real_." She huffed, turned her face away again. "Stupid idea. I know I'll never get over him, Tony. How can I? People expect me to move on. 'Move on, Jenelle. You can't keep yourself hidden away forever.' So I came here, and nothing changed. I hate the people, the weather, the traffic, the women in high heels and mascara and short skirts." She laughed breezily then and regarded Tony carefully.

"But I like you, Tony. God forgive me, but I like you." Jenelle gave him a meaningful look, before adding with a quirky smile, "Mr. Designer Suit."

Tony still didn't say anything. He simply stood from the chair and crossed over to the bed. He lay down beside her and brushed the frizzy curls away from her eyes. He rubbed away a tear with the pad of his thumb. "I like you, too," he whispered. "Thank you for sharing that."

She smiled as she, too, moved to run her hand through his short hair. She traced a finger over a scar near his hairline. "You look like you've been through a lot."

"Haven't we all?" he answered easily.

They kissed each other languidly for what seemed like days.

* * *

><p>Gibbs waited until nightfall to make the call to DiNozzo the Elder. He hadn't been looking forward to this, but he knew it would be better coming from him than from some other agency mouthpiece. Gibbs squeezed the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb before slowly tapping in the numbers on his cell phone.<p>

It rang several times, and for a moment, Gibbs thought that he was going to get nothing but voicemail.

But then…

"Hello?"

"Is this Anthony DiNozzo, Sr.?" Gibbs' gruff voice asked into his cell phone.

"Uh, yes… Yes it is. Who's calling?" There was talking in the background, soft piano music, and clinking of plates and cutlery.

"It's Special Agent Gibbs-"

"Oh… OH! Long time no see. I was just-"

Gibbs wasn't one to beat around the bush. "Look, you need to come to D.C. as soon as you can."

"What? What's going on? Is Junior up to something?"

"He's not up to anything lately. He's dead."

There was nothing after that. Just silence - or at least the continued clamor of wherever the hell DiNozzo Sr. was at that moment.

"You need to be here," Gibbs continued on, firmly. "Now."

"Wh-what?" the breathless voice on the other side finally asked.

"He got shot. We don't know the whole story. But I need one of his family members here to deal with some things-"

"I forgot to call him for his birthday."

Gibbs was caught off guard by the non-sequitur comment. "What?"

"I forgot," Senior went on, voice soft and shocked, "His birthday."

It took a bit for Gibbs to process what was going on. His answer was quick, vehement, and very Gibbs-ian. "Quite frankly, I don't think he gave a shit. And neither do I-"

"I won't be coming." Senior's tone sounded strained now.

"_What?_" Gibbs pressed, voice rising. "The _hell_ you aren't."

"I can't."

"Why the hell not, DiNozzo?" Gibbs almost cringed. He hated using that name - Tony's name - for Senior.

There was no reply. The man had clearly been shocked.

"Look, with all due respect," Gibbs was making a feeble attempt to soften his tone, "You need to get your ass in gear and do something for Tony. He's your goddamn only kid for Christ's sake."

"Do… Do what you think is best for him."

"What is wrong with you?"

"Just… just do whatever."

Click.

* * *

><p>Timothy McGee clipped the worn leather leash onto Jethro's collar and put him into his car's back seat. They were going for a ride, and the German shepherd recognized the route. He licked his lips in anticipation and pressed his nose against the glass.<p>

Tim pulled the car smoothly into a parking spot close to the door. He put it in park, applied the emergency brake, and unclipped his seat belt. He could already hear the dogs barking from the privacy-fenced yard. "C'mon, Jet," Tim said as he grabbed the leash and led the dog inside.

The staff was pleased to see the big black and tan dog. Jethro was an occasional visitor of this doggie daycare, often for the times when Tim was kept away because of work.

"How long do you need us to keep him?" one of the girls asked. She was watching Tim carefully, but mostly she was distracted by the dog who was straining against the leash.

"For a bit," Tim answered. "Just.. uh, just got some things to take care of."

The girl nodded and took the leash.

"Remember," he said. "He doesn't like other dogs, so give him his own room."

Tim leaned down and stroked the fur at the base of Jethro's ears. "See ya, buddy. Have fun."

* * *

><p>Jethro was only a dog, so he didn't know any better. But he was deeply alarmed by something brought about by his doggy senses. He didn't want his master to leave him. Something was <em>wrong.<em>

When the girl pulled at his leash, in an attempt to take him away, Jethro strongly resisted. He strained against the leash, and he barked.

The dog watched his master walk out the door. He pulled even harder, paws and claws sliding against the slick flooring.

Couldn't these humans see? Something was _**wrong!**_


	14. Chapter Twelve

**Author's Notes:**

1. I have re-done the summary a bit.

2. So, I was watching Ep. 10.5(I think that's it), and I noticed something peculiar in Gibbs' home: a goldfish bowl. Just wondering if I was the only one to notice it, or if I've finally fallen off the deep end. Seriously Gibbs? A goldfish? He always seemed like a yellow lab guy to me.

3. The drug "Tramapro" explained in this chapter is completely fictitious.

**Warning: **This chapter (the last part, in particular) and the following chapter will be going to a very dark, very serious place. (As if it wasn't already.) Thank you readers for your continued support.

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p>"<em>Floor collapsing<br>Floating, bouncing back  
>And one day...<br>I am going to grow wings  
>A chemical reaction<br>Hysterical and useless  
>Hysterical and...<em>

_Let down and hanging around_  
><em>Crushed like a bug in the ground"<em>

- RadioHead_  
><em>

* * *

><p>Chapter Twelve<p>

Gibbs hid in the darkened recesses of the morgue, waiting for Ducky to finally show. His old friend had given him a call earlier; he had "news" of sorts. The call had roused Gibbs from his kitchen table where he'd feverishly slept, slumped over the wrinkled copies of DiNozzo's notes and old case reports. Had to be a _clue_ somewhere. Ziva, appearing older than her years these days, had looked over the notes as well; there was nothing inside them that was telling.

So now the agent - the tireless _investigator_ - was here in the basement, hoping Ducky brought him something more than another "we don't know."

"Jethro…" The doctor greeted genially as he peeled off his coat and laid it carefully on a chair. "I had a rather lengthy discussion with that colleague of mine. Of course we bonded a bit over cricket and then we went over the news of the past years-"

"Duck." Gibbs was impatient, and it was quickly morphing into ill-concealed anger. These days, anger was the easiest emotion. His voice became quiet and measured, "What do you got for me?"

"Well luckily, she was particularly forthcoming, the dear girl. She seemed to understand my curiosity. So she gave me the complete autopsy report-" Ducky held it aloft before letting it slap heavily to his desk. "-Under the assumption that I would keep it to myself. I'm afraid the FBI has got this one under lock and key."

"You didn't call me all the way out here to tell me that," Gibbs deadpanned.

Ducky smiled without any real mirth. And then he methodically began paging through the documents. "I've already given it a once over, and-" The old man breathed out a sigh and looked at Gibbs over the rims of his glasses. "There are some interesting things."

"Which are?"

"Everything was mostly normal, predictable anyway. Cause of death due to two gunshot wounds to the chest. Presumably."

Gibbs gave his oldest friend a bonafide _harrumph_. "You gonna give me a straight answer?"

"I'll get around to it, Jethro. Patience-" Ducky gave him a firm look.

"Damn it, Duck!" Gibbs suddenly exploded. He pushed himself away from the table he was leaning against to tower over his shorter friend. "I'm not in the mood for games right now! Or stories!" he roared, face turning a distressed shade of red, spit flying. "Just- just, come on!"

But Dr. Mallard knew Gibbs all too well. He did not back away, not even when met with the man's volcanically misdirected anger. Carefully, he put a hand on Gibbs chest and gently pushed him back. Or at least he attempted to. "As I was saying, Jethro, patience _is_ a virtue."

Gibbs took a hard swallow, hoping to get rid of the raw rage that lingered in his mouth. It was acrid, like the moment before vomiting. He frowned, but kept his mouth shut.

Meanwhile, Ducky moved on as if nothing had happened. He extracted an x-ray film from the pile and placed it onto the light box. He then dug out a photograph and pushed it slowly across the table, where Gibbs could see it. Schooling his deeply lined face, Ducky began in a fully professional capacity. "Our victim was struck - as you know - two times in the chest." He tapped the enlarged photo. "One to the right of the heart, the other immediately above it."

Gibbs stared at the photo. It showed only a man's chest, no face or any other distinguishing marks. He wouldn't have even recognized it as DiNozzo if it hadn't been for the name printed on the bottom right corner. His mouth went dry as his fingers reached out to slide it closer, eyes locked on the ruined chest. The blood had been wiped away but still the ugly wounds remained.

"So according to the report," Ducky kept his voice low, "the heart was relatively unharmed by the bullet. The right lung was hit dead center. Practically obliterated, in a medical sense. The second bullet partially severed the aorta. Unfortunately for our friend, death was not exactly instantaneous, but it was inevitable, either from massive blood loss or from drowning in it. The lung was in bad shape. Irreparable."

Gibbs was still staring at Tony's chest, so Ducky moved to pull it away. "Do not dwell on the gruesome, Jethro."

Gruesome? Gibbs wanted to snort. This wasn't exactly gruesome. Kate's brains spattered on black roof tarmac… _That _was gruesome. Pacci's entrails hanging in the breeze… _That_ was gruesome. War… _That_ was gruesome. But this? No, this was relatively tame. Tony had merely been shot, and in a place not meant to disfigure. He'd fallen to the floor. Clean, vacuumed carpet. And he'd died where he lay. If not quickly, then at least quietly.

"But there was something else. Dr. Riley is _very_ thorough, and she noticed something peculiar," Ducky was becoming agitated as he went on. He used his hands to emphasize his words. "What she found was evidence of a substantial cardiac event."

"What? Like a heart attack?" Gibbs looked skeptical.

"To be quite honest, it's difficult to tell, considering the trauma to the area. But I'd feel comfortable saying that Tony had been suffering from a massive myocardial infarction at the precise moment he was shot."

"So what killed him?" The agent's face was unreadable. He'd gone completely still, as if he couldn't decide between defeat, confusion, ever-familiar anger, or an intense mixture of everything. "Two GSW's to the chest, or a God damn _heart attack_?"

"Nearly impossible to determine for sure, Jethro. At least, impossible to tell which would have killed him first. If not the bullets, then the heart attack. If not the heart attack, then the bullets."

"So," Gibbs stated quietly. "That's it?"

"Well, not _quite_. Tony's blood contained a high concentration of a non-narcotic painkiller. It took Dr. Riley a while to pinpoint what it was, but it shares many characteristics of something called Tramapro."

"He didn't tell me about any kind of medication."

The old man nodded. "Nor did he me. I did take the liberty to pull his employee medical records. They aren't particularly telling. The drug is prescription strength, but it certainly was not prescribed by me - nor an NCIS network physician."

"So what the hell is it?" Once again, Gibbs was impatient with his friend's slow-build to story telling.

"Well, Tramapro is sometimes used to manage persistent pain - think aches of the joints and other such things. Or pain caused by withdrawals from narcotics."

Gibbs blinked. "Persistent pain. Like arthritis?"

"Indeed." Again, Ducky nodded encouragingly. "From what I could gather, Tramapro was originally developed for performance animals - show horses, in particular. It was designed to be administered via injection, oftentimes straight into the offending joints. It improved the animal's comfort and athleticism, despite older age, stiffness, and - yes - crippling arthritis. Only just recently was it tweaked for use in humans, and it's a cult success among older athletes. Helps them perform pain-free and for longer periods."

"So you think Tony was shooting up this crap?" Gibbs looked doubtful. He would have noticed whether or not his wayward agent was injecting himself full of this shit… wouldn't he?

Ducky gave Gibbs a wan smile. "Not necessarily. Recently, a similar drug was patented in capsule form. It's more likely Tony received a prescription for _that_, as opposed to the injectable… what with that terrible and irrational needle-phobia of his-"

"Is it safe?"

"There are less immediate side effects when compared to narcotic equivalents," Ducky shrugged. "It does mimic some characteristics of steroidal anti inflammatories. Weight gain, intense thirst, frequent urination, increased heart rate and the like. Prolonged use can decrease kidney function over time. There was a study that attempted to link usage to increased anxiety. The results were not completely conclusive. To be quite honest, Jethro, it is not a very popular pharmaceutical, and I am confused as to _why_ Anthony's mystery physician thought it appropriate."

_And why Tony felt he needed to hide it. Like a junkie, _Gibbs thought inwardly as he chewed his lip. He had been hoping for something a bit more obvious. A veritable smoking gun. "DiNozzo never let on that he was in pain," he stated, voice blunt.

"Looking at the wear patterns on the weight bearing bones-" Ducky gestured towards the illuminated x-ray. All Gibbs could make out was a bunch of bones. "-It was not totally debilitating. He could do everything he needed to do; at times, it just probably hurt like hell. That is something I'm sure you can understand." Ducky threw Gibbs a meaningful look as he gathered the papers and placed them neatly back into the file folder.

"So we got nothing," Gibbs concluded. "Again."

"Pain like that is enough to make one irritable for sure, but not indiscriminately violent. The pharmaceuticals on the other hand…" Ducky ran a hand over his forehead. He needed a whole harbor full of tea after this meeting. "As Abigail would say, it _feels _a bit hinky. Perhaps if you tracked down whoever prescribed the drug-"

"Maybe I can help," a voice suddenly sounded from the darkened doorway.

Ducky jumped slightly, while Gibbs merely turned his head, his eyes sharp and suspicious. "Tobias?" he growled. "Who keeps giving you the damn door codes? People are gonna start thinking you work for us. Gave the ol' feebies the boot."

"Funny," Fornell snorted as he sidled closer. He was dressed in a suit, as always, and his face was fixed in a grim look of determination. "But you didn't think we'd let Dr. Mallard here share the goods without supervision, did you?"

Gibbs ground his teeth. "I told you not to shut me out, Fornell. But you did. If you thought I was just going to sit on my hands while the goon-squad took over, then you don't know me as well as you - or I - thought. This is DiNozzo we're talking about. You know him, right? You see what they're doing to him out there? It's a god damn feeding frenzy, and your agency isn't doing a thing to put a lid on the chum bucket."

"I gather that you're pissed," Fornell smirked, not without irony. "That's a lot of words, for you."

"Damn right I'm pissed." Gibbs tightly gripped the end of the table, knuckles white. "And I don't know where to go from here." It took a lot for the team leader to admit that he had no direction.

"For what it's worth Jethro, I didn't shut you out," Fornell soothed. "Word is, we don't have much of anything either."

"What about Vance? He changing his tune at all?"

"Seems that mum's the word with him. However, this isn't exactly an issue he can take care of by shredding a document or two. He was telling the truth, though. He fully intended to demote DiNozzo." Fornell then dug out the store-brand Ibuprofen bottle from the pocket of his well-ironed slacks. "This is what I wanted you to have." He leaned forward. He shook the pills around before asking, "We took this from DiNozzo's desk. Anybody mind?"

Neither Ducky nor Gibbs moved to object.

Fornell popped off the cap and dumped a good ten capsules on the table. They were small and two-toned in color: deep blue and baby blue. They spread out over the stainless steel, gleaming in the dim light. "Now, I'm not playing DEA agent here, but does that look like Advil to anyone?"

Ducky took two cautious steps forward, moving to grab one of the capsules. He held it up to the light. "Difficult to tell from look alone, but definitely not what the bottle suggests. The design of these…" the old man mused, "…very easy to tamper with."

"Tramapro," Gibbs muttered, gnawing again on his lip. He looked away from the both of them, swept a hand across his tired face. What else had Tony been hiding?

"Your boy got himself in quite a mess," Fornell stated needlessly.

"I never expected anything less from him," Gibbs mumbled mostly to himself. Then his cell phone suddenly chirruped. He snatched it from his hip, glancing at the caller ID. "Abs?" he answered, blunt as always. "Slow down…. I'm with Ducky….No, I haven't seen him…..He's _what?_ Stay. Stay where you are."

As quickly as he'd flipped it open, Gibbs snapped the phone shut. He looked at both Ducky and Fornell, a vaguely spooked look passing over his face. For a man as Gibbs-like as Gibbs, that was monumental. He opened his mouth and all he could say was: "Tim."

And then he was gone.

* * *

><p>Timothy McGee knew exactly when and how would be the best way to check an item out of evidence. He parked his car in the side lot, the one only smokers looked out on during their breaks. Nobody but visitors parked in the side lot, and visitors were few and far between at the NCIS headquarters.<p>

He glanced at the digital clock on the dash. 13:28 hours. It was blinking, and he wondered briefly if it was accurate. Lunch break.

Before Tim opened the door, he lowered the visor so he could check how he looked. His skin was blotchy and pale. His bloodshot eyes were ringed in puffy black. His hair was a little bit unkempt, but at least he'd had the forethought to shave. Quickly, Tim ran his fingers through the greasy strands on his head. He couldn't look completely like a bum.

Normalcy. That's what he needed to portray right now. Just like when Abby hung around, forced him to choke down dry pieces of toast, forced him to wash the grime - the smell of gunpowder and vomit - from his skin, forced him to watch his favorite movies, forced him to live with himself.

He didn't want to break it to Abby. But he threw up her toast. After the showers, the grime - gunpowder and vomit - came back, always. All of his favorite movies were over at Tony's place. And as far as living with himself went… he'd done that for a good while, but only now it was losing its charm.

"I'm fine, Abby. Thank you." "You can go home now, Abby." "You don't have to watch me, Abby." "I'm okay, Abby." "I'll be okay, Abby." "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, Abby."

Ziva - not Abby - had brought him home that first day. She had been quiet and kind, but Tim had driven her off, eventually. She had come back a few more times. Brought him things to eat. Sat next to him on the couch. She didn't suggest movies or anything else. If silence was good enough for her, it was good enough for him.

"Tony had a girlfriend, of sorts," she blurted the last time she'd come. "Jenelle. She is… not what I expected. But I think… but what does it matter anyway."

"Book girl," Tim had muttered, curled up on his end of the couch.

Ziva seemed interested. "You knew?"

"He mentioned her. Never told me her name. Was some big secret or something, but a good kind of secret." He had shrugged.

The ensuing pregnant pause gave birth to a child who went through all twelve grades plus college before getting pregnant itself. The quiet could have lasted forever, but at least it was comfortable, companionable, if unbearably somber.

"Tim." Ziva had turned to look at her friend closely. She remembered all those years ago, when she was brand new to the team. It had been McGee who had offered her support. "I cannot tell you if things will ever be okay; that is up to you," she told him with brutal honesty. "But things _will_ get better. It will hurt a little bit less, eventually. You did the right thing; you did what you had to do. You are very brave."

Tim had looked away, towards the darkened television. "Tell Tony that." He sniffed.

"Tony can rest now, McGee," she had spoken softly, but kept a firm eye on him. She had grown used to explaining the unexplainable. Years of car bombs, bus bombs, and _people_ bombs had taught her that. "Things do not make sense now and maybe they never will, but someday you will accept it for what it is."

"And what's that?"

"God's will. And we have no say in that."

That was last night, the night when Tim went to sleep like usual, stared at the ceiling for five or six hours before getting up, shaving and taking Jethro to the doggie daycare center. What was God's will, anyway? Did God regularly demand that friends shoot their homicidal friends in the chest with a 9mm semiautomatic? Was that honestly God's will?

Maybe that was how Tim ended up here at NCIS. Today of all days. Maybe it was some kind of divine intervention.

He stepped out of the car, not bothering the lock it. The day was beautiful around him. Sunny and green and in the low seventies. But Tim was hardly in the mood to notice.

Security didn't give him another look, which was vaguely disturbing. Maybe they hadn't recognized who he was. Maybe he didn't exist anymore. Maybe _he _was the one who had died up in that office.

The relief evidence technician was on duty, the regular one being on lunch for one hour or two hours. The young man didn't bat an eye when Tim requested the Sig Sauer P226 registered to Anthony DiNozzo.


	15. Chapter Thirteen

**Author's Note: **Lots of McGee in this one.

**WARNING: **Attempted suicide, swearing, disturbing imagery.

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p><em>"A revelation in the light of day.<br>You can't choose what stays and what fades away.  
>I'd do anything to make you stay."<br>_

- Florence + The Machine

* * *

><p>Chapter Thirteen<p>

Ziva went alone to Jenelle's walk-up apartment in Trinidad. She was never afraid of a little grit and grime in a neighborhood, but she honestly did not know what she'd find here. Tony had never mentioned a girlfriend to her, although he obviously had to Tim. She ignored the tickle of jealously had lodged between her ribs. Why hadn't Tony shared that with _her._ They were friends, too, right?

But it was a worthless thought. She never could explain Tony. What you saw wasn't necessarily what you got.

She scanned the aging buildings while she parked the car. She wasn't nervous. No, Ziva didn't get nervous, unless she had to speak in front of a crowd. But a weird sense of dread had already taken a hold of her gut, and it spiked as she rapped on the door. She ran a hand over her head, smoothing her hair.

Finally, the door opened as wide as the chain would allow. "Hello?" Two wary brown eyes and a small frown greeted Ziva. The eyes then drifted downwards at her badge and gun.

Ziva forced a kind smile. She wished she had Tim here. She didn't really do nice. "Are you Jenelle?"

"Yeah. Can I help you?"

"Possibly," Ziva forced a smile again. "I am Ziva… I work with Tony."

The woman remained unimpressed, and she didn't move to take the chain off the door. Not yet.

"Look," Ziva attempted. "Do you have some time to… talk?"

The door suddenly shut, and Ziva thought for a moment that the answer was a definite no. But then the door opened again, wider this time. Jenelle smiled thinly; she had her hair tied back messily, and she wore a loose-fitting t-shirt and a pair of worn jeans. "Come in, if you want," she finally offered. "You want anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?"

"No, thank you. I am fine." Ziva followed Jenelle inside and shut the door quietly behind her.

The apartment was small - very small - but it was clean, sparsely furnished, and eclectically decorated. There was an easel propping up a half finished painting near the back window.

Ziva looked at it with a raised brow. It was of an alley, the same desolate view that could be seen from the window. Green dumpsters and gray concrete and a rusty Cutlass. "You paint?"

Jenelle had circled around her tiny kitchen table. "Not really," she shrugged. "So, you work with Tony?"

Ziva took a step forward. "There's something-"

"I know what you're here to tell me, Ziva." Jenelle's wan smile was gone. "I watch the news. They said that he snapped and shot his boss. That he was troubled and unstable, and that he had been for a long time."

"Do you believe that?" Ziva asked.

Jenelle frowned. "Do you?"

"No."

Breathing out a sigh, Jenelle sank into a chair. "Are you investigating him?"

"No," Ziva shifted, but didn't move to sit. "This is… personal. Did you notice anything… different… about him lately?"

Suddenly, Jenelle was on her feet again and moving towards the back room. She returned with a small black duffle bag, which she deposited on the table. "This is his," she announced without much emotion. "Lately, he'd been distant, but we didn't really expect much from each other, you know. We were both trying to get over _things. _We gave each other space." She unzipped the bag. "But he'd been preoccupied, and when he wasn't, he was moody and paranoid. He told me his back hurt, his leg hurt, his shoulder hurt." She pulled out a prescription drug bottle and set it gently on the table. "He was taking these. From a pain clinic in Anacostia."

Ziva studied the handwritten label on the bottle. Tramapro.

"I didn't pry. I had my own secrets." Jenelle moved to brush a strand of hair from her face. "I think we all do."

Ziva let her eyes rest on this woman. She didn't know her, not at all, but Tony had. And it was strange. She never thought he would fall for the-girl-next-door type. Just like she thought he would never turn his gun on the Director. "Yes. Especially him."

"He did recently mention someone named Dr. Samantha Ryan. Said he had to meet her for some reason. He was acting really strange that night. Angry, almost. Tony could be very… intense."

Swallowing, Ziva stored that bit of information away for Gibbs. Then she laughed quietly. "Yes, intensely annoying mostly."

* * *

><p>He drove until he couldn't see the road anymore. Drove with the semiautomatic pistol riding shotgun. His hands gripped the steering wheel hard, leaving the skin on his knuckles thin and white. He guided the car out of town. Row houses turned into single family homes. Concrete turned into yards. Single family homes turned into sheds and barns. Yards turned into fields. And then there was just woods, acres of woods. The road got curvier, somehow thinner, and when he felt the car's wheels touch gravel, he slammed on the brakes. The vehicle fishtailed as its wheels struggled to grip gravel and grit. It came to a full stop in front of a tree with only inches to spare.<p>

The driver's side door flew open, and Timothy McGee stumbled out, disoriented and pissed. He slammed the door shut and swore at it.

Tim brutalized the side of his car before he finally felt the pang of metal on delicate wrist. Now leaning awkwardly against the slick door, he let gravity pull his body towards the dirt. The car was dirty, and the road dust stained his shirt black. Weirdly contorted, he sank down until he was in a semblance of a squat. A keening whimper bubbled from somewhere in his chest, but he didn't have the presence of mind of hear himself. The tears were already coming on their own accord, driven by mental agony so real he swore it was physical. It pried at his torso, dug itself deep and stayed where it lodged.

He didn't know where he fucking was. Tim had driven himself into the middle of fucking nowhere. Just took the car, took Tony's gun, took himself. And here he was, gracelessly embracing this car. It had dared to take him his far. Saved him, unwittingly, from the fucking tree. Exhaustion cramped the muscles in his legs; he pressed his cheek hard against the metal of the car door.

Feebly, Tim staged another attack on the immovable object. He banged his fists against it, this time harder until he swore he was going to break his hands. Until he swore they'd be nothing but bloody nubs. He'd be limbless, like Monty Python's Black Knight. Tim suddenly yelled. Heard something snap. He threw his whole body into that door. Dented it, even as weak as he was. Two times, three.

He tripped, even though he wasn't even close to standing. Tim fell against the door again, slid down again. He barked out a laugh that tapered into a sob. The physical pain was finally registering now.

"Tell me what I should do, Tony! I don't know what to do!" Tim screamed at nobody. He was completely in the dirt now. His jeans were colored tan from it. Still half-crouching, half-sitting, shoulder propped against the now warped car door. "_Tell me what to do_. Please. Tell me- what should I do?" Tim couldn't even feel the snot dripping from his nose, or the way it clung to his face alongside the tears. The way it smeared on his dirty sleeve when he tried to hide those same tears. He choked on the sobs. They lodged in his throat, threatened to strangle him.

_God_. Tim didn't even know what was happening, what _had_ happened. Was this all still real? This breakdown. This everything. "Tell me, DiNozzo. TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD DO?" He dragged his hands across his wet face roughly, streaking it with grime, and shifted so that he pitched forward. He caught himself with those same hands. Felt the dust stick to his skin, embed beneath his nails. Pain flared; it comforted his misery. He strangled back a miserable squeal of agony.

He finally landed on his butt, sitting limply, his back against the car, heaving breaths in and out. "I wasn't ready, Tony," he panted, "I WASN'T READY." Tim dragged his dirty hands through his hair, grabbing onto it and almost pulling it out by the roots. He screamed into his arms.

Tim then suddenly felt the heavy weight of the Sig P266 in his hands. Like it was heaven sent. A miracle, an answer. He almost didn't remember where he had gotten it from. Tony's gun. Tim clutched it, ran dirty fingers over the black metal. Over the barrel, over the hammer, over the safety, over the back strap. He caressed the trigger. He knew it was loaded; he'd checked.

It was a revelation; a _resolution_.

Unsteadily, Tim held the gun in both hands. They trembled, partly from fatigue and partly from pain and partly from something else entirely. Crumpled against the car, he started lazily stroking his temple with the semiautomatic's muzzle. It felt good; it calmed him down. His breathing slowed and evened. The tears dried to his face. "Still don't know…" Tim mumbled to the pistol. "Don't know. Don't know."

* * *

><p><em>You did your job, McGee.<em>

When Timothy McGee was in FLETC, he never thought he'd ever get used to the heavy weight of a handgun. But by the time he was thirty, it was as familiar as an old sweatshirt.

_Sometimes our coworkers aren't who we thought. You saved the Director's life, kid._

He used to hate going to the range; he used to let his gut tie itself into knots before the firearms examinations. But now, handling a weapon was natural. Like eating or getting dressed in the morning.

_You're a hero, son._

He never was the best shot in class, but he was decent. And he worked hard for that. That was good enough for him.

_You did good. Pull yourself together._

Gibbs forced him to practice. Practice until his hands were sore and tingling. Because decent was not good enough for the boss. On Gibbs' scale of achievement, there was no "good enough." Only "good" and "get the hell off my team."

_You ever hesitate again because you second guessed yourself, I'll take your badge._

Gibbs wasn't much of a teacher. Well, he was to Tony but not to him. Gibbs led; Tony taught.

_You know I look out for you, right, McGee?_

He didn't like Tony when he first met him, and he didn't think he ever would.

_I need you to stay away from the Director._

Now with the comfortable weight of ammo and aluminum alloy clutched in his hands, Tim aimed to shoot and kill. Except this time, two bullets weren't enough. Bleeding like a wounded animal, Tony stumbled around in misery, maybe to escape or maybe to angle for another attack. Everything was a little fuzzy, but finally the wounded man fell and he didn't get back up. Tim stepped closer, cautiously. From where he lay, Tony stared fixedly at the far wall. His breaths came quick and shallow.

"Gotta put him down, McGee. Would be cruel not to." Gibbs voice.

This wasn't the way it happened. He didn't remember this part at all. His mind was playing tricks on him. It didn't happen like this. Gibbs wouldn't make him do this.

Tim aimed the gun. He felt Gibbs hands around his, steadying them. "Like this. Make it quick."

He stared at blood stained jacket. It _didn't_ happen like this.

* * *

><p>Gibbs finally found Abby in Room 304 of the psychiatric unit. As soon as he walked through the door, she pulled herself out of her chair and charged into his chest, clinging to him with surprising strength. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were wrinkled. She wasn't wearing make-up or even her characteristic dog collar. "What took you so long?" she accused.<p>

"I'm sorry, Abs," Gibbs returned her hug. "I got a call from Dorneget saying that the lunch hour relief somehow released DiNozzo's gun-" From here, he could see McGee seemingly asleep on the bed.

"I know," Abby whispered. "A sheriff's deputy found Timmy on the side of the road ready to blow his own brains out with it."

Gibbs backed away from Abby, hands still on her shoulders. "Don't talk like that."

"Why not? 'Cause it's the truth!" she snapped. She then looked away and ran the back of her hand across her nose. She moved away from Gibbs and sat back down next to the bed, looking morosely at McGee's still figure. "Don't know why he went and did that."

Gibbs stayed quiet because he didn't really have an answer for her. He stepped closer to McGee, looking him over to make sure he was whole; he gently touched the cast wrapped around his hand.

"He beat the shit out of his own car," Abby went on. "Broke his hand on it. The deputies said he was crazed. They have him drugged now. He will be for a while."

A chair scraped noisily over the bland colored flooring. Gibbs sat slowly, facing Abby. "You okay?"

"He's so selfish," she accused the insensate form on the bed. Her face was blank. "He's trying to leave us, too."

"Abs-"

"Why would he do that to us? Why would he _do_ that, Gibbs? Can you answer that?"

Gibbs kept his eyes on her, tried to work out her emotions.

"_I_ know why." She pointed at herself. "Because he's fucking selfish, _Gibbs. _So _fucking-"_

"Abby. Abby, stop." He could see the tears welling in her eyes. He shook his head. "He's not selfish. He's just in a bad place."

Abby paused and then nodded, as if that was as good of an explanation as anything else. "I'm angry at him."

"That's not going to help-"

"No, not at Tim," she quickly corrected him. She brushed away the tears before stating flatly, "At Tony."

That was one thing they had in common right now, Gibbs thought without humor. He looked back over at McGee, so drugged out of his mind that he didn't bother to stir under the sheets. He reached out and squeezed the younger man's shoulder. "You hang in there, Tim. You've got a lot of people who need you." He paused and glanced briefly towards Abby. She looked exhausted, elbows digging into her knees and her chin resting on her palms. He lowered his voice and spoke only to McGee. "We need you. I need you."


	16. Chapter Fourteen

**Author's Note: **This chapter was a **long** time coming. I sincerely apologize for the wait, and I hope you enjoy this next installment.

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p>"<em>You told me life was long but now that it's gone<br>You find yourself on top as the leader of the flock  
>Called to be a rock for those below."<em>

- Mumford & Sons

* * *

><p>Chapter Fourteen<p>

* * *

><p>There was whispering from overhead.<p>

"Tim, Tim. Wake up, buddy. McGee. Come on. Wake up."

He struggled to reach out for it, struggled to reach out and get a purchase on consciousness. When he thought he was making headway, Tim felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing and nudging. He saw two eyes, hazel and worried. Green, almost. He saw brown hair, ruffled as if from sleep, and a head silhouetted by sunlight that leaked in from the open window with the white curtains. It was a beautiful day outside, warm and smelling of spring and-

"McGee. _Wake up."_

"Tony," Tim mumbled. He chapped lips came unglued as he slurred. His gummy tongue became tangled with his teeth. "Tony?"

The nudging stopped, as did the voice.

Tim had thought his eyes were open, but apparently they were not. He struggled to pry them ajar, battling the gunk that had formed from dust and tears. He peered through brown lashes at the nothingness of the room. Nothing but white, a plane of sterility. And above him, Tim's gaze landed on Jimmy Palmer where Tony DiNozzo had been just a moment ago.

Still dazed and cotton-headed, Tim rolled clumsily to one elbow to look around. "Tony?" His eyes grew wild and desperate, and he sought out every corner.

"Whoa, whoa," Jimmy reached over to push him gently back down to the mattress. "It's just me," he soothed awkwardly. "Just me, Jimmy, here - uh - alone. You're in the psych ward, but don't worry. I don't think you're crazy."

Tim let himself sag back to the lumpy mattress. He wanted to declare that he had just seen Tony. He'd been _right there, _but he decided against it. That would have been an open declaration of crazy. His right wrist was encased in a hard cast; it throbbed subtly. He attempted to move his left arm, but the motion was thwarted by a short binding which connected to the railing of the bed. Tim blinked and tried moving his arm again, this time with more force.

His brain was still fuzzy. It wasn't moving as quickly as his instincts, and his instincts were telling Tim that he was _trapped._ He looked towards Jimmy.

"It's just a precaution," he explained kindly. "You weren't really yourself when they found you."

Tim wasn't quite sure he agreed with that. He rested his head back against the pillow. Other than his wrist, he didn't feel much pain at all. He was more than likely medicated, possibly sedated. His eyes moved towards the window. No white curtains, no sunshine. The sky was leaden with rain.

He felt the tears drip over his cheeks before he even knew he was crying.

Jimmy shifted in discomfort, but he stayed quiet. Tim was grateful for that, but he was even more grateful when he finally heard the door open and close quietly.

He wanted to be alone.

* * *

><p>"You got something for me, Abs?" Gibbs asked breezily as he swept into the lab, Caf-Pow in hand.<p>

Abby startled and looked away from one of her computer's screens. She looked like she hadn't slept in at least a month. Her flat black hair had been half-heartedly pulled into two messy pigtails. Her lips were pale, and the dark bruises under her eyes rivaled a raccoon's. The white lab coat seemed to hang off of her like a bland sheet.

"Hey, Gibbs," she greeted despondently as she returned to clicking around her impromptu game of minesweeper. She'd gone through the morning's lab work as quickly as possible, sending terse emails to bumbling field forensic technicians as she saw fit, and now all she had to do was wait while a few tests processed. She felt more than saw Gibbs sidle up close to her side.

"I asked if you had something for me," he repeated softly. He waggled the cup a little, which made the ice slosh together.

Abby looked him over with a critical eye. She finally asked, "How do you do it, Gibbs?"

"Do what?" He was wary. Abby appeared to be on the precipice of a breakdown. Instantly, Gibbs regretted asking her to come into work today; he'd only wanted her to analyze DiNozzo's Tramapro on the sly.

"How do you detach yourself like that?"

Gibbs frowned and growled in warning, "Abby."

"No, I'm serious, Gibbs. I want to know how you do it. I want to be able to do that." She swiveled a bit on her stool. Her green eyes were dark, murky like an algae-filled pool.

"No you don't, Abs," he answered. "You don't need to detach; you need to feel."

"So, what about you? Why don't you need to feel?"

"I've done enough of that," Gibbs answered firmly. "I just need to get the job done. Which is why I need to know what you got."

Abby studied his face before silently sliding off the stool and approaching a paper she'd printed out earlier. She handed it to him dismissively. "Methylenedioxypyrovalerone."

"Methyl-what?" Gibbs frowned and stared at the paper.

"That's what I found," she explained, turning back to minesweeper. "In the Tramapro."

When Gibbs neither left the room nor handed her the Caf-Pow, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. "MDPV. Acts like a stimulant. Bath salts. Zombies eating people's faces off. Does it ring any bells?"

Gibbs only blinked.

"It's a schedule one controlled substance, Gibbs. I found it in his pills. Somebody was drugging Tony. Somebody poisoned him, Gibbs. _Poisoned him!" _She ended in a yell of frustration. "And look what Tony did. Look what he did." Abby grabbed the mouse again and started clicking violently. She ended up losing the game after she hit the wrong square. Tossing the mouse away, she got up from the stool again.

"You know what? I'm done with this day. Just… done." She waved her hands around.

Gibbs, however, hadn't moved from where he'd rooted herself, and Abby collided with his chest. "Abby," he warned. "Sit down."

She obeyed, sitting slowly. He pushed the Caf-Pow into her trembling hands and urged her to take a sip.

"You good now?" he asked.

Abby shook her head, put the oversized cup aside, and swiped a hand over her suddenly wet eyes. "I'm tired, Gibbs," she whispered to her hands. "I'm going to finish up here, and then I'm going to go see Timmy." She then looked straight at Gibbs. "And you're going to figure out who tampered with those pills, right?"

"Yeah, Abs. We got that."

* * *

><p>"Put it over there. It'll look good with all the others," Director Leon Vance growled weakly as he tipped his head in the direction of the window ledge in his hospital room. It was now burgeoning with an assortment of flower bouquets, cards, and balloons. He was sick of all of that junk, the happy colors and encouraging phrases.<p>

"Get well soon!" "Don't lose heart!"

If he could pry his bullet-riddled body out of this bed, he would have crushed the flowers, shredded the cards, and stomped on the balloons. He would have thrown them all in the trash. He would have loved to see them in a dumpster, amongst the other worthless and meaningless refuse, used condoms, banana peels and their ilk.

"I'm glad it'll be appreciated, Leon," came Dr. Samantha Ryan's sarcastic retort. She had brought an orchid, blue and weeping, and she jammed it in front of a bunch of daisies and a card with a sad looking kitten on it. She looked at the spread for a moment, as a means of gathering her thoughts, before she turned and sat. "How are you doing?"

Leon scoffed. He didn't answer.

She went on to remark, "He got you good, looks like."

"That he did," he grumbled.

Dr. Ryan suddenly leaned forward. She affixed him with a steady stare, something clinical and assessing. "Tony DiNozzo is dead."

"I hadn't noticed," Leon bit out, slow and steady and firm. Fire was starting to lick at his eyes. "I was about ready to ask _you_ why."

"I wasn't there."

"No, you weren't, but I'm the one who told you to handle DiNozzo. And oh look, now he's dead."

"That's funny," Dr. Ryon spoke in a voice that conveyed little humor. "A little bird told me that you ordered his coworker to fire at him. Or am I mistaken?"

Leon could only glower as he answered, "I won't deny or dispute what happened in that office. I reached into my desk. He started shooting. McGee was there. He was convenient. I thought I was going to die. End of story."

"Very convenient, then. Open and shut. I like that."

"Well I don't!" He barked.

"You don't?"

Leon breathed heavily now, exhausted by the short display of emotion. Pain started to radiate from his Swiss-cheesed limbs. He took a measured sigh before staring long and hard at the woman sitting beside him. "Tell me what happened," he whispered.

She lied, her voice also lowering, "I don't know."

"Who are you protecting? The CIA and their cronies? PsyOps? Yourself?"

"No," she answered quickly before letting her eyes move back to the flowers. "Only you. And Gibbs, maybe."

"We need answers, Sam, not a cover-up."

"It looks bad," she again deflected.

"Someone is dead because of it."

"Look, I told you to pick someone else," Dr. Ryan spoke in lame defense of herself. "You told me to handle DiNozzo. I spoke with him; he was suspicious, paranoid. He was already unstable, like a dog trying to rip off its own tail, so that's when I knew."

"Knew what?"

"Someone else was dealing with him on their own."

"Who?"

"I already told you," she snapped. "I. Don't. Know."

"But you have an idea," Leon urged.

Dr. Ryan stood up and pushed the chair back where it belonged.

"You have an idea," he reiterated.

"Open your eyes, Leon. They couldn't have McGee, and they knew Gibbs was untouchable, so they got rid of the fat. By now, they're already working on something new. This is old news, Leon. Tomorrow, the FBI is going to hold a press conference. The assistant director himself is going to get up on that podium and say two magic words: workplace dispute."

"You'll let them bury it?" Leon seemed incredulous.

"What are they burying, Director Vance?" She asked laconically, putting special evidence on "director." "Agent DiNozzo will soon be headed to the crematory, and then we can all breathe a sigh of relief. Right?"

Leon flinched.

Dr. Ryan paused before producing a file from the briefcase she'd been carrying with her. It was a faded and dusty green, and on the tab in bold block letters it read: **OP. HELL-BENT**. "This is what you were trying to sign Special Agent McGee up for." She started flipping through the pages casually, although it was clear she'd already studied it backwards and frontwards. "I know you're a smart man, Leon-"

"I thought he was a good fit for it," he ground out. "I stand by that decision."

"Undoubtedly he was, considering everything they told you. But what about the things they didn't?"

Leon made a sudden grab for the file, but Dr. Ryan had already moved away. As he breathed harshly in hisses and grunts, she tucked it safely away again into the briefcase. She commented, "I could be fired for having this thing."

"So why do you have it?" Leon wheezed.

"Do you remember when I told you that if Gibbs were to ask, I'd gladly give him an answer?"

"It can't be that simple."

"It isn't. But he did ask, and I aim to make good on my promises." She pulled open the door. "Enjoy your orchid. Don't call my desk phone. Curious minds love to pry, but I think we've already learned our lesson."

* * *

><p>"Duck," Gibbs greeted succinctly, letting the caustic smell of autopsy anesthetize his uneasy gut. He found his old friend sitting in the dark and drinking two fingers of Scotch from one of his mother's crystal tumblers.<p>

Dr. Mallard looked up to meet the intruder eye-to-eye. "You know there's a crack in this glass, Jethro," he began speaking. He held up the glass, so that his weak desk lamp illuminated the russet brown liquid. "Tony dropped it. Years ago. Very clumsy sometimes."

"A little early, isn't it?" Gibbs commented, wanting to change the subject immediately.

"It's never too early for a nip," Ducky chastised his friend. "Now what can I assist you with."

Gibbs wasted no time. "How much do you know about MDPV?"

Ducky frowned and set the tumbler aside for later. "Why do you ask?"

Gibbs scowled. "DiNozzo's pills weren't exactly 100% Tramapro."

"I see," Ducky leaned back in his office chair and ran a weather beaten hand over his face as he gathered his thoughts. "Well, that would explain the myocardial infarction."

"And what else?"

"Irritability, mood swings, obsessive tendencies, extreme paranoia, unpredictable behavior, aggression," Ducky listed, each item becoming more and more damning. "This is not a new substance, Jethro, but recently - as you may already know - it has resurged as a designer drug. Not as expensive as cocaine or methamphetamine, and relatively easy to come by. It has no clinical use. I recall several studies that involved rats; the drug produced robust reinforcing effects and compulsive self-administration." The old man frowned, wrinkles deepening. "If Tony felt something was amiss, I'd like to think he'd stop. But perhaps he hadn't yet put two and two together."

Gibbs was officially pissed. "This _shit_ killed my agent, Duck."

"Probably as much as Timothy's bullets did," Dr. Mallard nodded.

The both of them now thought aloud in the darkened office.

"Maybe somebody _wanted_ DiNozzo to snap." Gibbs paced.

"So they had Tony self-administer the drug under the impression that it was something else. It's clever enough." Ducky took another swig of Scotch.

"But I still don't know why. Or who. Or-" Showing uncharacteristic exhaustion, Gibbs stopped his pacing and leaned his forehead against the painted cinderblock wall. He shut his eyes and racked his brain. "I can't think."

A silence settled over them, only to be interrupted by the soft clink and trickle of the crystal tumbler being refilled.

"Perhaps it's time for you to say goodbye, Jethro," Ducky finally suggested quietly. "Abigail and I, we're going together before they take him to be cremated. I think maybe-"

Gibbs suddenly pushed himself away from the wall and headed for the door. "Not ready for that," he mumbled

* * *

><p>Last Summer<p>

_Tony sat semi-quietly on one of the boat's benches, legs stretched out and his palms gripping the smooth wood to steady himself as the Kelly rocked gently in the harbor. He wore a nice pair of shades and fading jeans, gun holstered and badge attached to his belt. The whole boat excursion was merely a detour spurred by one of Gibbs less-than-effusive grunts: "I gotta stop and get something."_

_He supposed he could have stayed behind in the car, but babbling at the back of Gibbs' head was decidedly more entertaining than babbling at the Charger's glove compartment._

_When Gibbs finally emerged from the cabin - toolbox in hand - and headed to step onto the dock, Tony immediately stood up to follow._

_He smiled easily and joked, "So are you ever gonna tell me how you got this thing out of the basement, Boss?"_

"_Same way I got it in there, DiNozzo."_

_Surprised he got a straight answer for once, Tony leapt onto the dock and trotted after his boss. "So, in pieces?"_

"_Sometimes you're smarter than you look." Gibbs popped the Charger's trunk and tossed the toolbox inside. "Maybe," he suggested spontaneously, "we'll go out on her one day. Good weather this week."_

_Tony thought about it, hand resting on the passenger side door handle. He half expected it to be a joke on him, so he smiled and gave a non-committal shrug._

"_Think about it," Gibbs slid behind the wheel of the car. "You bring the beer; I'll bring the Dramamine."_


	17. Chapter Fifteen

**Author's Note: **Just a reminder that this story is plenty dark. Read with caution.

* * *

><p><span>HELL BENT<span>

* * *

><p>Chapter Fifteen<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Z<strong>iva double-checked the address she had entered into the GPS as she recklessly navigated the potholed streets of Anacostia. They were on their way to the pharmacy that filled Tony's prescription. Non-work related, Gibbs had stressed with one breath. But then in the next breath, he'd instructed her to take Probationary Agent Dorneget, their badges, service weapons, and an agency-issued vehicle along with them.

"You have a problem, you call _me_, Ziver," Gibbs had stressed, eyes bloodshot from too much hooch or not enough sleep or both.

Ned Dorneget sat beside her in the passenger seat, right hand clamped onto the "oh shit!" handle, while the other clutched at a cell phone jammed in his ear.

"Can you repeat that?" Dorneget squawked into the phone again for the nth time. It was difficult to concentrate while riding the fine line between life and death. He looked over at Ziva who seemed focused on one thing and one thing only. Putting a fleshy palm over the bottom speaker, Dorneget said, "Turn right up here. You'll come out on 16th."

Ziva eyed him with doubt.

"What? I used to live in this neighborhood," he explained before turning his attention back to the phone conversation. "Can you repeat that?" he asked once more.

She took the right as sharply as possible. Dorneget almost ended up in her lap. He grappled with the handle as he struggled to right himself semi-gracefully. "Okay," he said to the phone. "Thank you for the information. Have a good one." He tapped the "end" button.

"Make a U-turn," the GPS insisted in a manufactured British accent.

Ziva glared at it and then at Dorneget.

It repeated, clearly adamant on this point, "Make a U-turn." And then after that, "Turn right." After _that, _"Bear left." The streets whizzed by.

"Are you sure, Ned?" Her voice was tight and impatient. During their short time working together, she'd taken to calling him by his first name. Dorneget had no protests about that. He treated Ziva delicately, even though she was clearly anything but. Perhaps it was more caution than delicacy. Ziva worked quietly and efficiently. She kept her hair wrapped in a messy ponytail that hadn't been freshened in hours. Dark circles stained the thin skin under her eyes. Her lips were locked in a strained straight line of neutrality.

Dorneget knew better than to ask too many questions. Agent DiNozzo's sudden and violent death had been the cause of several personality changes as of late. It was clear how many lives Tony had touched over the past several years.

He swallowed thickly. "Trust me."

Sure enough, they came up on 16th St quickly. The light was red, and Ziva tapped the brake impatiently as she slapped on her turn signal. When the light switched, Ziva tailgated the jacked up white Cadillac in front of them until she was able to pass in the left lane.

"So, what did you find out on this place?" Ziva questioned, fingers flexing against the leather of the Charger's steering wheel.

"Oh," Dorneget floundered only slightly. "DEA's already there."

She frowned. "Why?"

"Something about a pill mill," Dorneget explained, watching the urban decay whip past their vehicle. "They've been watching this place for weeks. Today is the Big Day."

"Shit."

"Looks like it'll be on the right."

"We won't be able to miss it," Ziva stated, voice level.

Up ahead, a cluster of police vehicles had assembled in the cracked parking lot of The Medicine Shoppe. The place was swarming with activity. Yellow tape had been strung up haphazardly, temporarily blocking most of the turn-in to the lot. Undeterred, Ziva practically bounced the Charger up on the curb as she propelled them into the lot. The front bumper nearly nudged the side of a large black SUV. The tailgate was popped open, and a man in a DEA windbreaker approached it with a cart of cardboard boxes.

Ziva evaluated the situation with darkening eyes. "Are you ready?" she asked Dorneget quietly.

"For what?" He scratched at his knee with short nails.

"We are just going to ask questions." She turned off the engine and climbed out of the car.

A few men had gathered near the front entrance. Two of them were in DEA jackets, another was in a DC Metro uniform, and yet another was wearing plainclothes. An employee, Ziva guessed. The man in plainclothes looked distressed. He was arguing, voice stumbling over his words. Not a native English speaker. He suddenly swore in Arabic; she smiled.

All of them looked their way as Ziva approached, Dorneget trailing behind her. The two DEA agents blinked at the insignia on her jacket. She smiled and showed her identification. Dorneget followed suit, except his was upside down. "Special Agents David and Dorneget. We have some questions."

"I wasn't aware this bust required the attention of NCIS," the more churlish of the two DEA agents remarked. He had a ruddy face and a badly receding hairline.

"And you are?" Ziva asked.

"Assistant Special Agent in Charge Wilcraft. What's it to you two?" he responded.

The second agent seemed more socialized than the first. He stepped forward, offering his hand with great enthusiasm, "Agent Craig here. Call me Tony." He then nodded his head in the uniform's direction. "And Officer Lukowski." The employee, meanwhile, still looked pissed but was holding his tongue.

Ziva stared at Agent Craig, suddenly losing her trail of thought.

Dorneget stepped up to the plate. "We need to ask some questions relating to an incident involving Director Leon Vance and Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo."

ASAC Wilcraft narrowed his eyes. "I heard about that. Damn shame." He seemed to soften minutely. "You know I worked with DiNozzo a while back. Big meth bust. Must be eight years ago now. Strange sense of humor. My ear fell off from all the jabber." He paused. "Good guy, though. I guess that goes to show you never know with some people. What can we do for you?" He seemed almost pained to offer that much.

Ziva bristled, but Dorneget laid a hand on her elbow. "Agent DiNozzo had a prescription filled here. We believe it had been tampered with." He produced the pill bottle.

Wilcraft gave it a cursory glance. "This is a shady damn place to be getting legit scripts filled," he growled. "Which makes me believe this one's not so legit. We've had our eyes trained on this shit bucket for almost two months now."

"Let me see it," the employee suddenly demanded from the periphery of the conversation. He was a young man with a thick brow and well-trimmed facial hair. He craned his neck closer. "See? This one is real. Real doctor. All of them… legit. Look it up. Google."

"Yeah?" ASAC Wilcraft allowed his voice to rise in derision. "What about Dr Zhivago? Dr Gregory House? Dr Quinn? Dr Leonard McCoy? Coincidence maybe?" Wilcraft pushed.

"Lawyer," the young man demanded.

"Arrest this asshole. I've heard enough." Wilcraft waved them all away as Agent 'Call me Tony' Craig cuffed and led away the nameless employee with that same ridiculous amount of enthusiasm.

"These pills were tampered with," Ziva insisted, stopping Agent Wilcraft's escape. "We need to know how, by whom, and why." She looked towards the cuffed employee. "Let us speak with him."

Wilcraft's answer was simple. "No."

"It will only take five minutes."

"Look, Agent David. Don't bring your personal vendettas here. And don't tell me this isn't personal, because I can see that it is just by lookin' at you. You wanna play with the DEA, then you're going to have to play by the rules. You got questions for what's-his-face? Come to our office. Meet with me. We'll be dragging in a whole slew of his buddies." Wilcraft scanned the road, watching the traffic come and go. He looked back at Ziva and then glanced briefly at Dorneget. "Bring your friend. It'll be fun."

* * *

><p><em>Several Days Prior<em>

**I**t was 5:30 on a Wednesday night, and the Food Lion was packed with scores of after-work shoppers. Gibbs stood with Dr. Sam Ryan in the check out line. The family in front of them had just reached the conveyer belt with a cart brimming with items. Gibbs steeled himself for the wait, scanning the candy bars and beef jerky.

Sam settled for a tabloid magazine. She grinned wryly as she flipped through the pages.

"What?" Gibbs asked, glancing at it.

"Oh you know these things."

"Ridiculous rags." His eyes strayed to the small selection of puzzle books. "I figured you could, uh, stay tonight, if you'd like," Gibbs offered. "Have enough food here for two."

"Do you now?" Sam asked with a smile, eying the sparsely occupied cart.

He smiled with relative ease before grabbing a word search book and tossing it in the cart.

Sam's eyes lingered on the puzzle book. "A fan of word searches?"

"No, but DiNozzo is."

"You two seem… close," Sam suggested.

"He's bored and not all that happy with me." They inched closer to the register. "It's a peace offering."

"So it's not closeness?" she pushed.

Momentarily annoyed, Gibbs set his jaw. "What do you think?"

"I think you'd do anything for that man."

"No, _he'd_ do anything for _me_. I'm just trying to live up to it."

* * *

><p>"<strong>Y<strong>ou sure you want to do this, Jethro?" Tobias Fornell asked as they stood together outside the double doors. He kept his arms crossed, warding off the chill that seeped from the nearby morgue corridor. In truth, Fornell hated it down here. It was too quiet, too cold, and always smelled of death.

Gibbs' answer could only be honest. He had weighed Ducky's advice carefully. Waffled over it for hours. He didn't know if he truly needed this, if it was for his own psyche or for the sake of the others left behind. He didn't know if it was necessary. Maybe if he started showing some emotion. Started _reacting_ in some way or another and shed himself of the anesthetizing numbness.

He'd done these death visits so many times before. Too many times. Some nights, difficult nights, he even dreamed of them. What was the difference now? A goodbye was a goodbye, no matter that this one would last forever. No matter…

_Just do it_, something in the corner of his mind urged. _Pack away the anger. This is no time for that._

"No," Gibbs forced the word out of his mouth. "I'm not sure." At the same time, he took a step towards the door.

But Fornell stopped him at the brink.

"What?" Gibbs frowned.

"Just…" Fornell managed to appear contrite. "Don't take too long. They don't like when people take too long. We're on borrowed time here."

Gibbs nodded and stepped through the door. A morgue technician watched with wary mouse-like vigilance from where she stood next to an open drawer. She glanced towards the doors at Fornell. He gestured her away impatiently.

"Hurry it up, then. I could get in trouble for this," the woman told Gibbs as she headed towards a rear door, throwing back one last peek with black, beady eyes. Her movements were silent. Like death's representative.

Gibbs watched her retreat, lingering in that one spot for as long as possible and delaying what was inevitable. The stale morgue air had already started to penetrate his coat. Slowly, he looked towards the white bag laid out harmlessly in the drawer. His throat froze as he wet his lips and struggled to dislodge some dormant emotion from himself.

He was never one for words, but he opened his mouth anyway.

"You've managed to really piss me off this time," Gibbs informed the bag. He spoke in a muted tone just above a whisper. "I can't get rid of this anger. You-" He paused and rubbed his fingers over his chin. "Who were you protecting, Tony?"

The answering silence was unnerving. It rattled Gibbs to his core. He felt something cramping up between his ribs.

"You should have come to me, damn it. Whatever it was. Whoever it was. Always come to me." He paced to one wall and back again. "But you knew that."

He stepped closer, suddenly bold and ready for this final confrontation.

"Tim's a mess. Tried to follow you here. Tried to eat your gun. He would have followed you anywhere," Gibbs chuckled without humor. "You probably knew that, too. We saved him. He's not following you here, Tony. You're on your own."

He reached for the flap, struggled with the zipper with numb, knotted fingers. He pulled it aside and forced himself to look.

"Damn you, DiNozzo," Gibbs muttered, denying the fact that the back of his throat was beginning to swell uncomfortably. Or the fact that the dry air in here was making his eyes begin to prick. "What am I gonna do," he whispered almost soundlessly. Alone in this room, he had no one to be strong for. Just him and a friend he'd already lost.

With a morbid kind of curiosity, he reached out and touched Tony's hair. It was unexpectedly soft, even when felt through the thick calluses of his finger pads. He half-expected to find something dry and desiccated. Disfigured. Ugly. It wasn't so.

"I learned a lot from you," he admitted. "Whether I liked it or not, it's true." He felt around the cold skin of Tony's temple with his thumb. "We had some good times. I liked your drive. Determination. You were a bit wild at first. Almost thought it wouldn't work out. Almost fired you more than once. But you kept showing up. Kept showing me your courage and your tenacity. You were never afraid to tell me what for.

"There were times when I even appreciated your stupid jokes. I never told you that. But you know Kate could be kind of sour at times. I figured if you could lighten the mood with your stupidity, why not let you." He smiled and swiped his sleeve across his face hastily. "You're makin' me talk, you bastard. Never was my job, all the talking.

"Well, Abs wanted me to steal some more of your hair, but I don't think you'd appreciate that." Gibbs chuckled wryly before he finally removed his hand. "Until later, Tony," he reluctantly bid farewell.

Summoning his remaining internal strength, Gibbs secured the bag and stepped backwards. As he fought to shutter this new surge of grief, he looked up at the vast network of tiles overhead.

What was he going to do now?

Then he turned and pushed his way out of there. Fornell, startled by his friend's sudden appearance, began to trail after him.

"Goin' home, Tobias. I've seen enough."

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he employee present at The Medicine Shoppe went by the name of Imtiyaz, and with minimal prompting, he admitted three things: they routinely filled counterfeit prescriptions, they sourced pharmaceuticals legally from a distribution center located somewhere in Ohio, and they had a lax set of security and quality control protocols.

He also pointed a finger at somebody named Travis, who was a beanpole of a young man with limp blond hair and a wide-eyed stare.

"Look, you guys gotta believe me," Travis begged as his fingers flexed nervously against the metal tabletop. His palms left sweaty streaks. "I don't know jack. I just left a few doors unlocked, and that was that. I don't know nothing about any drug tampering, okay? If I thought it was serious-" He drew in a few breaths that hung on the precipice of hyperventilation. "I just figured it was some junkie coming to swipe some Oxy, okay? What's the harm in that? What's the harm? What's the harm? What's the harm?" Travis looked on the brink of a breakdown. He dragged a trembling hand across his greasy face.

Ziva slapped the table, hard. The sound cracked like a gunshot and made even Dorneget flinch in his chair. "Calm down!"

Oddly enough, it worked. Travis blinked and swallowed convulsively. He nodded, at a loss for anything else to do.

"Who told you to leave the doors unlocked?" Ziva asked.

"He never told me his name," he answered softly, eyes beginning to water. "Did I kill somebody? Oh God."

Ziva ignored his question. "What did he look like, Travis?"

Travis hesitated. "Uh, I don't know, like, old maybe? Kinda creepy looking. Scraggly. He had this, uh, patch on his eye. Like a pirate. Funny accent." He was biting his lip as he started to pick at a scab on his forearm. "Did I kill somebody?" he asked again.

Ziva shut her eyes for a moment and thought. She drove away the sudden rage that began to claw out of her chest. She quickly replaced it with cold indifference. She was an investigator, and she'd done what she must: investigated. She didn't have to like the results. "No, Travis. You did not kill anybody. You just made it easier for somebody else to do so."

"Oh God. Oh God." He buried his face in his palms and rocked his bony frame back and forth for comfort. "I think I need a lawyer now. I think I do."

Ziva leaned back in her chair and watched the scene in front of her without emotion. "You are not who we're after," she deadpanned.

Outside the Arlington DEA building, Ziva smoked a cigarette while gazing at a small throng of tourists waiting for admittance into the museum. Dorneget stood awkwardly nearby, unsure what exactly to do or say. He fingered the cell phone in his pocket. His other arm hung uselessly at his side.

"I didn't know you smoked," he commented.

Ziva didn't shift her gaze, and for a moment Dorneget thought she hadn't heard him at all. "I don't," she said. She wrapped one arm around herself.

"Okay. It's just- I think they have laws about how many feet from an entrance you can-"

"Trent Kort," she interrupted him. "I thought he would be dead by now. Goes to show."

He looked at her curiously. "Goes to show what?"

Ziva took one last drag. "Absolutely nothing."

* * *

><p><strong>A<strong>bby awoke curled on Tim's hospital bed. She turned her head and blinked blearily at her friend's face. He was gazing towards the window, green eyes made dull and vacant from the sedatives. Slowly, gently, as if she were handling a spooked horse, she took a hold of his arm. He had recently been freed of his restraints. His thin wrists still bore the faint red marks of irritation. She rubbed them soothingly.

"Tim," Abby whispered at him, hoping to break him from his empty trancelike state.

Tim blinked and his eyes tracked slowly to hers. He attempted a weak smile.

"Hey," she smiled back. "Are you thirsty?"

"No," he lied.

"Hungry?"

"No," he lied again as he licked dry lips. "I'm ready to go home now."

Abby frowned and shook her head. "Tim, do you realize what you-"

But he'd already turned away from her to resume his window gazing.

"Promise me that you aren't going to try that again, McGee," she pled as she sat up in the bed. "Promise me."

McGee heaved in a sigh and shut his eyes. He mumbled, "You don't understand. It's on repeat in my head."

"Then help me to understand, Tim. We want to know what's going on and what we can do to help."

"Turn back time?" He suddenly looked back at her. "I already tried once and failed. I won't do it again."

"What? Turn back time?"

"No. Kill myself," Tim deadpanned.

She swallowed. "So you promise you won't try again?"

"Yeah, I'm done with the whole 'Girl, Interrupted' thing," he assured her. The humor fell flat.

"This isn't funny, Tim. You broke your wrist against the side of a car and held a gun to your own head."

"I know. You don't have to remind me," He turned away from her, settling in for the duration. "Just let me be for a bit. I need time to just… be. Okay?"

Abby nodded wordlessly as she removed herself from the bed.

"And I'd rather not see Gibbs anytime soon. Okay?"

"He needs you, Timmy. Especially now," Abby argued.

"No, he doesn't," Tim countered, almost in anger. "I'm an employee. He's my boss. Let's not make it out to be what it isn't. Got that? Keep him away."

"You're wrong." Abby grabbed at her purse.

"Whatever," came the despondent reply.

They parted in anger.


	18. Chapter Sixteen

**Author's Note:** There's some sex in this chapter. A lot of coping, non-coping, conversations, revelations, crazed threats. I had a hard time getting a hold on Gibbs' emotions in this chapter. I think he's sort of spiraling off into outer space. Whereas McGee… Oh McGee, I do love him a lot, but I miss my Tony.

If I have not responded personally to a review of yours, I sincerely apologize. I appreciate each and every comment. They keep my spirits up while writing this thing. Thank you thank you thank you to all of you readers out there!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Sixteen<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>G<strong>ibbs coped in the only way he knew how.

He retreated to his basement, to his bourbon, to his woodworking. He needed to use his hands; he needed to let his mind go dark. Just for a bit. For tonight, at least - until he had to emerge and face everything and everybody again. Sympathetic faces saying sympathetic things. Sometimes sincere, sometimes fake.

He didn't know if he could stomach any more of it.

Saying goodbye to Tony had been hard.

One of the hardest yet, and there had been plenty of goodbyes over the years.

If he shut his eyes and let his imagination off its short tether, he could hear DiNozzo's meaningless chatter. Maybe he should have given it a closer listen a week or so ago. Maybe all of the clues were there, right in front of him.

He reached up and turned on the old black and white television. The 9 o'clock local news murmured in the background, the picture a fuzzy, undulating whirl. The shooting in NCIS headquarters was now officially old news. The PR department had gone dark; there wasn't anything else to say. Best to let time bury whatever doubts and questions lingered.

Gibbs poured himself a generous portion of stiff liquor. Tonight he'd drink not to forget, but to calm the rage and the grief that was quickly becoming some poisonous, burning hybrid in his gut. Throwing back a swig, he sat heavily on his workbench and regarded the project in front of him.

A birdhouse. He'd been working on it for weeks and weeks.

He studied its edges, ran his fingers over it and considered the proportions and slight imperfections. It was a damn fine house for a bird. He'd never come out and say it, but he almost couldn't wait to install it on some fence post - maybe out in Stillwater, someplace wide and open.

"I like it," Tony had said with a gleeful sort of admiration. "But will the birds be able to afford the mortgage?"

Gibbs' lip twitched at the memory as he took a small bit of sandpaper and began rubbing out whatever rough spots he could find.

He drank, refilled and drank some more. He rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. The TV programming switched to something else, something with an obnoxious laugh track that hovered annoyingly in the background.

It was a gradual shift, but the more he worked on this birdhouse, the more he began to hate it. It never seemed smooth enough; it just wasn't _good enough._ There was something fundamentally flawed with it. Defective. He tried and tried and tried to fix it until his fingers were red and raw.

Gibbs finally dropped the sandpaper and ran the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. He realized that he was breathing heavily. Stomach acid burned at the back of his throat. The birdhouse sat there. Unfinished. It needed a perch, and he had the thin, three-inch peg of wood all ready to tap into the hole he'd drilled last week.

So he grabbed the hammer and started to tap, gently.

And then he started to bang on it, not so gently.

The house splintered, bits of it jetting off of the worktable. He hit it harder and harder. The racket echoed around the basement. He smashed and destroyed, over and over again, until it was a ruined pile of wood chips.

"God damn it!" Gibbs swore loudly as he chucked the hammer at the wall and then used his arm to sweep the whole mess of the destroyed birdhouse onto the floor. He looked at it - the spread out bits and pieces - and laughed, breath heaving in and out.

"How d'you like it now, huh?" he yelled at the vacant stairway. Splinters stung, embedded deep in his palm. "Fuck."

The front door slammed shut up above.

Gibbs froze, but then he stepped towards where he kept his back-up gun.

"Am I interrupting something?" Samantha Ryan asked from the landing, voice deadpan and calm.

He stopped and turned. "Sam," he greeted, hiding any and all surprise at her sudden appearance.

She was wearing a thin jacket and, under her arm, she cradled a file folder. She had dark smudges under her eyes.

"Sit," Gibbs invited, an automatic response. "You look tired." He moved to empty a jar of nails, but she shook her head.

"Not tonight." Sam stared at the splinters of wood on the floor as she slowly descended the last flight of stairs. "You worked so hard on that birdhouse."

He shook his head. "Not hard enough."

"You worked even harder building your team, but for some reason, it keeps falling apart at the seams." She set the file on the newly cleared off table. She tapped it, before saying, "You'll never forgive me, but that doesn't matter to me. As long as I know I was able to give you answers… without you needing to come out and ask."

Gibbs stared at the file. "How much of that is redacted?"

Sam's answer was blunt. "Read it."

He didn't move to open it. "You know, Sam… When you work with someone for a decade, they become more than just a coworker."

She stayed quiet, letting the usually taciturn man speak his somewhat broken piece.

He went on, "They become a friend."

Silence hung between them. Sam broke it, "I know you'll-"

"Shut up," Gibbs spoke sharply, "And tell me what you did to my friend."

She hesitated, wary of his sudden mood swing.

"Does no one see what's going on out there?" he went on. "That man they're talking about on the news… That's not Tony. That's not the man I spent ten years working with."

"I get it," she said. "You're hurt."

Gibbs studied her face for several moments. His disbelief was bald. "Excuse me? I didn't quite get that."

"Jethro-"

"Smells like a cover up. DiNozzo was a convenient scapegoat, wasn't he?"

"Jethro-"

"Say it," Gibbs demanded. "Tell me what you did to him. In detail. How you did it. Everything."

"I didn't do anything," Sam defended herself, voice low and urgent. "DiNozzo was too curious. He was trying to protect McGee. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't have it. They'd already gotten to him. Somehow; I don't know how. Or who. There was nothing I could do."

"So it's about McGee," Gibbs pressed.

"Read the file. Please."

"And yet you told me nothing. Until now. _Now_ you have all the answers. _Now_ I'm supposed to feel grateful. Is that what you want from me, Ryan?"

"My job, Jethro-"

"Fuck the job!" Gibbs snapped. "I'd give up this fucking job ten times over if it meant I could save my kid." He turned away and ran both hands through his hair, letting them linger on the crown of his head.

"Guess I didn't realize how close you two were." Her statement was as emotionless and stiff as ever.

He spun around. "Get out." A demand, not a request.

Sam stepped away in surprise when she saw the watery brightness in Gibbs' eyes. She hadn't taken him for a particularly emotional man, but now she could tell how worn to the quick he was. "I'll need to take that file with me."

"Oh, no you don't," he growled. "I know how you work. You made a copy. Redacted anything incriminating. You act like you've done me a favor."

"I _have_ done you a favor."

"If I see you again," Gibbs explained. "I'll shoot you dead, and that's not an empty threat."

She stared at him. There was something unhinged and predatory in the glare he had pinned on her.

But he wasn't done yet. "I'll go to prison with a smile on my face. But first, I'll find Kort, and I'll do the same to him."

"Kort?" Sam seemed confused. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"Ziva told me all about his extracurricular activities."

"I had no-"

"Do I need to give you more of a head start?" He moved towards the gun locker, and he only stopped when he finally heard feet retreating up the stairs. He almost laughed at yet another relationship gone extremely south, but instead he shook his head as he tried to untwist the nerves knotted in his middle.

Alone again, and standing in the sea of splintered birdhouse, Gibbs stared towards the file. He hadn't the heart to sweep it up right now. Slowly, with the stiffness of an aging man, he sat on the bench and began to read.

* * *

><p><strong>Z<strong>iva David sought solace in sex without meaning.

She smoked a cigarette while naked in someone else's hotel room bed, the sheets haphazardly flung all over. She sat against the headboard and let an odd little smile linger on her lips. Sex with her old friend Adam was just as she remembered it. It was comforting and familiar.

"Can't you do that outside?" the man beside her requested, brow raised as he waved at a billowing cloud of second-hand smoke. "I don't want to spend my vacation acquiring an upper respiratory condition."

"I smoke when I am stressed," she answered simply. "You know that."

"Nothing much stresses you out. What happened?"

She licked her lips. "I do not really want to talk about it."

"Fair enough." He looked at the ceiling.

"Is it?" Ziva leaned over and put the cigarette out in a glass of melted ice.

"I don't know," Adam shrugged. "You've never been good at sharing."

"True." She gave him a sideways glance.

"I kind of just want to fuck you again," he admitted.

"I enjoy your honesty."

The sex wasn't graceful. It was rough and hard and fast. They grunted like animals and made the box frame squeal with their wild movements. This was just what she wanted right now. She was going to fuck and fuck and fuck until Tony slipped right out of her mind.

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>im wasn't really coping at all.

After a battery of interviews with counselors and other mental health professionals, it was collectively determined that Tim had apparently phased out of merely wanting to kill himself.

Now he just wanted to torture himself with the news media's portrayal and analysis of Tony's spectacular final act. The dramatic violence of it seemed to have caught the attention of various news outlets, from local to national.

Holed up in his private room, and with the aid of his smart phone, Tim obsessively poured over article after article of the incident. He even read the comments, which ranged from calls for prayers to hoping somebody burned in Hell… to the need for more gun control to the need for less gun control… to wild assertions that members of law enforcement were notoriously unstable to other wacky hypotheses that somebody had slept with somebody else.

He streamed the days old newscasts. Watched Scott Pelley, Gwen Ifill, Charlie Rose and a whole parade of talking heads gnaw hungrily on the news fodder. He saw the FBI press conference.

Sound bites raced through his mind, some of them on repeat.

"…_an act of workplace violence arising from a dispute over a job performance review…" _

"… _at least four guns registered to his name…" _

"…_a troubled fifteen year veteran of law enforcement, with a checkered past of both commendations and reprimands…"_

"…Sometimes people just snap," a police psychologist in a sharp pantsuit was explaining in the current video. "These are people performing very stressful jobs. Oftentimes, they have their whole lives wrapped up into it. Losing control is a real threat to them…"

There was a sudden knock, and Tim shut the phone off hastily to look up at a familiar face in the doorway.

"Hi," he greeted, warily. He tried to fight off the drowsiness by sitting up straighter in the bed. It was difficult, considering the bulky cast encasing his wrist. He blinked.

Dr. Cranston was smiling kindly at him. "Can I come in?" she asked.

God, she looked so much like Kate. It was freaky. An unwelcome lump formed in Tim's throat.

"Uh, sure," Tim shrugged. "Been a long time." He looked down into his lap.

"It has." She stepped through the doorway and settled into the chair beside him. "And a lot has happened, hasn't it."

He eyed her, not unkindly - but rather with curiosity. "Why are you here?"

"Word gets around."

He winced. "Great." The last thing he needed was the revelation of his becoming an absolute basket case getting around. And it would spread like wildfire if Tony- He stopped his thought and winced.

"Don't worry, McGee." Dr. Cranston rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "You're doing okay."

He breathed out a sigh that barely hid a small sob. "You really think so?" Tim couldn't decide if his own question was sincere or not.

"You're a strong person, McGee," she asserted with confidence.

His green eyes studied her face for traces of a lie, even a little white lie. He didn't know what he was right now, but he suspected "strong" wasn't a particularly accurate descriptor. The other day he'd been a hair's width away from blowing off his own face with Tony's Sig Sauer. Tim held a chapped lip between his teeth as he looked away. "Shit," he breathed out.

"They're ready to set you free from here," Cranston said. "Do you feel ready for that?"

Tim shrugged. "I guess."

"You seemed interested in your phone. What do you have going on there?"

"Just surfing."

She sat back. "You can talk to me, Tim. You look like you need to talk, but you just don't know how."

"I need to be left alone," he countered. "That's what I need."

"You've been left alone. This is where it's gotten you."

"Stop."

"I'll listen."

Tim looked away. He was both annoyed and strangely heartened by Dr. Cranston's persistence. She wasn't giving up, not on him and probably not on anybody else she worked with.

Not only did she look like Kate, she acted like her, too. The lump in his throat returned with a vengeance.

"I think about him all the time," he admitted quietly.

She did not move to interrupt.

"I dream about him…" he paused before quickly adding, "I know that sounds weird. But I can't get him out of my head."

"You two were very close," she stated because she knew it was true.

"We are. I've never had a friend like him before." Tim rubbed his uninjured hand over his weary face. His throat tightened, so he thought it would be best to remain silent.

"You're not ready, are you?" she then asked, voice low and gentle.

"Ready?"

"To say goodbye."

Tim swallowed. "Goodbyes make everything real."

"That's not a bad thing, McGee. Eventually, you'll have to accept what is real."

"Not real, then," Tim amended. "_Final_."

She went out on a fragile limb and said, "He deserves a goodbye from you."

A look of resentment quickly spread over Tim's face.

The limb cracked under her weight and fell to the dirt below.

"With all due respect, doctor," he said, "what he deserves is to not be dead." He then laughed without humor. "And we can't forget that I'm the one who killed him. I made a terrible mistake up in that office; I will never forgive myself."

"I still think you need to talk," she pressed. "But if you also need more time before you can do so, I can respect that."

"Thank you." Tim spoke with sincerity.

Dr. Cranston stood up from the chair and buttoned her jacket. "But don't bottle it up, okay? Soon you'll need to share some of that burden. I know Gibbs-"

"Don't say it," Tim begged.

"He's worried about you. All of them are."

He looked at the wall. "He says he doesn't blame me, but I think he does. Secretly."

"It's not about blame-"

"Yes, it is. I almost _want_ him to blame me. I can't handle this, what's happened, what I've done. I can't."

"You can." She rested her hand again on his shoulder.

Tim's throat was tightening yet again, but this time he did not retreat into silence. A sob bubbled up and out of his chest. He wheezed once before shaking his head, vehemently. "I'm falling apart."

"It happens."

"I'm supposed to be the one keeping everybody else together. Don't you understand?"

"I do, Tim. I do."

They sat together for a bit, making quiet small talk. She offered to drive him home once the discharge paperwork came through, but he refused with a shake of his head and a quiet, "Thank you."

McGee. Always polite.

Before leaving, Cranston leaned in and gave him one more bit of advice. This one from raw, personal experience. "Keep him not only in your head, but in your heart, too."

Tim breathed in a shaking gulp of air and seemed deeply embarrassed by the tear that suddenly knocked itself loose from his eye. "God, you look just like Kate," he said out loud, repeating his earlier mental thought. "I miss her so much."

Suddenly breaking from her usual distant relationship with patients, Cranston tugged him in for a brief hug. Her embrace was warm, and she smelled like vanilla. He wanted that warmth to stay with him forever, or at least for today.

But he knew it wouldn't. It wasn't his to keep.

That afternoon, Tim was finally discharged from the hospital. While he stood in the huge lobby of the hospital, alone and dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing the afternoon of his wild car ride, he suddenly remembered that he _would_ need a ride home. His car had probably been impounded who knows where.

He'd never felt so completely out of place in his life. It was like an out of body experience. People passed him by, never giving him a second - or even first - glance, all of them wrapped tightly in their cold weather jackets and their own personal dramas. He navigated the open space without really knowing where he needed to be.

Tim knew he shouldn't have driven Abby away last night. Truth was, he did need time to just be, but that was a hard concept to explain to somebody like Abby. And fresh from a conversation with Dr. Cranston, he wasn't entirely sure his way of thinking was for the best. He dug his phone out of the plastic Food Lion bag all of his other belongings had been quickly shoved in. He should have called somebody before leaving his room. He should have taken Cranston up on her offer. He'd already be on his way home. Maybe they could swing by the kennel and pick up Jethro, if Abby hadn't already done so for him.

He should have called his family. His mom. His dad. His sister. _Somebody._

Wandering over to an empty cluster of padded lounge chairs arranged family room style, Tim sank heavily onto one of them and stared at the black screen of his phone. Should he?

God, his mom would have a heart attack.

What would he say?

What could be said?

"_Hi, how's your day? Good? Great! Me? Oh, I'm just fresh off my first ever suicide attempt. But other than that, it's all fucking peachy, thank you for asking. P.S. I killed my best friend the other day. Shot him right in the chest. Yeah, he bled all over. Don't worry, though! I'm okay! P.S.S. Thinking about quitting my job, moving to Canada, and never touching a gun again."_

No.

He woke the phone up and decided to call Abby.


End file.
